I have absolutely no idea what should I write today. I don't even know if the grammar for that last sentence is correct, but I guess it doesn't matter anyway, for I am already letting my fingers wiggle around this same old keyboard, trying to find whatever it is, whatever gets your attention on this particular day. All I have to do is let them roam free across the thing, let them decide on what I will write about, even though I hadn't planned anything in particular to write about.
I came here on the same route, the same bus, the same hour, to do the exact same thing I did yesterday, and even the days before that. Why we do what we do? Do we do it because we must, or do we do it because we're supposed to do? Or do we do it because we're just some kind of stubborn bastards, doing whatever it is we were NOT supposed to do? Because it seems to me that sometimes we just stick doing the same old thing, over and over again because we're just some kind of stupid guinea pigs of someone else's science project. An ant farm. Whatever.
I have no idea on what to say, and all I can think about...is shit on past grievances, past regrets we should let go, we should...just forget all about it. Why don't we forget all about it?
Why can't we forget all about it?
Thing is, we're addicted to misery sometimes. We cling to this still life, this routine, because we're alive, even though we supposedly are the only species that knows what is the end of it all. What is the big secret. What is the mystery of life.
We're the only species that knows all about death. About that closure of life.
And sometimes I wonder if that is the great propeller of life. The fuel. The certainty of our finite time. Some of us think that this very knowledge should impel us to live each day to its fullest, seize the day, so to speak. Go out and make your time worthwhile. Make it happen. Make your dreams come true.
Only problem is that our lifes are often so full of shit that we just try to forget all about it. We try not to think about death, because we'd get even more depressed, more worried. So we forget all about it, and we're stuck back on ditching days, taking drugs to make the time pass more rapidly. To kill the time. We drink. Watch television. Let it pass.
A time that won't return. No refunds.
So in the next morning, we wonder what we did wrong, where we took the wrong curve, the wrong road. So in our eternal search of the meaning of life, we forget that we're alive, but only for a restricted time. And we know all about the closure, but we don't know the fucking date of such event. And we neglect that knowledge because we just can't afford more misery in our lives.
And such a thing is a paradox in my humble opinion. If the knowledge of the end of life is the propeller and we choose not to think about it, we end up stuck on a loop, trying to pass the time, to let it slide in a more painless way, denying that it will happen. We forget about it, and all of a sudden, we're so surprised when we see someone lying in a coffin.
We remember it all again - death, finality, finite - and once again we try so hard to forget all about it. We drink. We watch television.
We forget all about it, and we're back on the road of misery. And we know its ending, only we choose not to think about it.
What a great paradox.
I came here on the same route, the same bus, the same hour, to do the exact same thing I did yesterday, and even the days before that. Why we do what we do? Do we do it because we must, or do we do it because we're supposed to do? Or do we do it because we're just some kind of stubborn bastards, doing whatever it is we were NOT supposed to do? Because it seems to me that sometimes we just stick doing the same old thing, over and over again because we're just some kind of stupid guinea pigs of someone else's science project. An ant farm. Whatever.
I have no idea on what to say, and all I can think about...is shit on past grievances, past regrets we should let go, we should...just forget all about it. Why don't we forget all about it?
Why can't we forget all about it?
Thing is, we're addicted to misery sometimes. We cling to this still life, this routine, because we're alive, even though we supposedly are the only species that knows what is the end of it all. What is the big secret. What is the mystery of life.
We're the only species that knows all about death. About that closure of life.
And sometimes I wonder if that is the great propeller of life. The fuel. The certainty of our finite time. Some of us think that this very knowledge should impel us to live each day to its fullest, seize the day, so to speak. Go out and make your time worthwhile. Make it happen. Make your dreams come true.
Only problem is that our lifes are often so full of shit that we just try to forget all about it. We try not to think about death, because we'd get even more depressed, more worried. So we forget all about it, and we're stuck back on ditching days, taking drugs to make the time pass more rapidly. To kill the time. We drink. Watch television. Let it pass.
A time that won't return. No refunds.
So in the next morning, we wonder what we did wrong, where we took the wrong curve, the wrong road. So in our eternal search of the meaning of life, we forget that we're alive, but only for a restricted time. And we know all about the closure, but we don't know the fucking date of such event. And we neglect that knowledge because we just can't afford more misery in our lives.
And such a thing is a paradox in my humble opinion. If the knowledge of the end of life is the propeller and we choose not to think about it, we end up stuck on a loop, trying to pass the time, to let it slide in a more painless way, denying that it will happen. We forget about it, and all of a sudden, we're so surprised when we see someone lying in a coffin.
We remember it all again - death, finality, finite - and once again we try so hard to forget all about it. We drink. We watch television.
We forget all about it, and we're back on the road of misery. And we know its ending, only we choose not to think about it.
What a great paradox.
