Another ultimatum

I don’t have anything more to say. I’ve written many drafts but I quickly noticed how they add nothing to what I’ve written before.
It’s another piece of evidence that I have been thinking the same way for the last few years.

The first major independent decision I made in my life I regretted. The most crucial of the things I’ve lost was my confidence.
I remember wanting to be at school just because I hated home, and wanting to be at home because I hated school. At the age of 18, after many years of thinking, I traveled to study abroad. That didn’t solve anything. In fact, it made my problems feel inescapable; I couldn’t “leave” my problems and travel away.

There were many ultimatums I have given myself. I wrote: “I will do my best effort, but if I don’t achieve X in Y days then I’ll have to make big changes.” Most ultimatums weren’t met, and I learned to save myself the paperwork.
There’s one thing I was always ashamed to admit. I tried not to say it or write, because as long as its only in my mind it could be untrue. I always wonder how different my life would have been if I was born in another random place. I can’t help but think my life would have been better.

The last few months I have been trying to slowly rebuild my confidence. The first step I took was to not think about the past. In that spirit, I believe I must stop writing in this blog. Because as soon as open the page, I get a heavy feeling as I remember the past all at once. I hoped I could write something very good as a final post, but I couldn’t. I really had nothing more to say.

There maybe some unpublished drafts that I will polish and publish, but I hope to focus more on the future.

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An end before the end

I came to the conclusion that I have to try something else that’s different from what I have been doing for the last few years. But in order to make a great effort, I believe it is necessary to put an end to this blog. At least to symbolize my focus on the future, not the past.

There isn’t a single moment in my past that I wish I could relive. Though this sounds exaggerated, I assure you that I have thought excessively before saying that. Between the things I wrote here, and the things that happened before the blog, there are enough reasons to aim for something different in the future.

The best thing that could happen is that I would forget about the blog and everything that happened. I would have too many new memories to remember everything. Then, when I’m old, I will look it up and read it. Hopefully, in comparison with my better memories, everything in the blog would seem so distant. Hopefully, it would seem as if this blog was written by someone I don’t know but I sympathize with.

The worst thing that could happen is that everything will repeat, and I will just start another blog. I have an uncle that I respect who doesn’t seem to be living a good life. I see almost everyone in the family patronizing him and agreeing with whatever he says. Sometimes they would whisper to me after he leaves that he’s lost it. But he seems sane to me whenever I talk to him, and I always tell them that I don’t get it. I fear that one day they would treat me the same way they treat him (maybe it has happened already).

I am becoming 25 years old; I had to think for a bit to calculate how old I should be. I think I’ll write a few more posts. There are a few things I want to bury in this blog, and hopefully leave here forever. I’ll end the blog with the post I’ll write on my upcoming birthday.

I believe all is well

It is convenient to have a fear of flying when you can’t travel anyway.
All that I will tell myself (and remember in the future) is that I’m not leaving. There will be no major reason; I couldn’t and I (possibly) wouldn’t want to if I could.

It feels familiar. That’s how I spent most of my young life: watching movies, and reading about other places. Yet when I realized I couldn’t travel abroad as a teenager, I began to take note of what would repulse me about what happens “over there”.

I am little uneasy that I am growing into my older self. Growth isn’t supposed to be in circles. You’re supposed to learn and learn until you know almost everything you need to know. So by the time you’re old, everything would seem repetitive and boring because you know everything.

A few days ago, I woke up feeling terrible. I knew I had bad dreams, but I didn’t remember anything. It was helpless misery, and for the whole day I was feeling terrible for nothing that I have committed. It was one of the worst feelings.

I promised myself that I will stop my old habit of believing in the least optimistic view on things. I planned to do it, at least just to show that I’m growing in the traditional sense; growth by not being your past self.
But I’m starting to form an explanation that ties everything together.

There will be many “maybe”s in the next sentences. I don’t want to break my promise, so I’ll just express doubts that I don’t fully believe.

I couldn’t study abroad, that’s the fact.
Maybe my fear of flight is a tool I used to not feel helpless misery. Maybe in those terrible unknown dreams I was just traveling the world. Maybe I haven’t grown in all those years. Maybe I don’t know how to handle this failure better than my 15 year old self.

Becoming wiser

 

I think wise people are all the same, and I think anyone with that many experiences will converge to the same wisdom. An averaged-out boring template of a person. An indifference by knowing happiness will be followed by misery. A calmness by knowing misery will be followed by happiness. But the greatest wisdom is that little evil overcomes great good, and there always is little evil in the world. There is an atom of depression in every wise person.

I am too old to lie to myself, but young enough to reject others’ lies. Most of the potential is gone. I have acquired some wisdom, if only by the sheer number of my unsuccessful attempts. But can an old man push a boulder he couldn’t push in his youth?

Maybe this is the start of my acceptance; this is admittance. With an amount of honesty that only a wise person can have, I say that I cannot look in the mirror and say, even unconfidently, that there is much potential left.

 

“Everything in its right place”

It took only a few days, a couple of days to be exact, for everything to be back the way it used. The phrase I hoped to avoid using is that everything is back to its right place.

I don’t where the feeling that I shouldn’t be alive comes from, but I’ve had it for as long as I remember. Even if it went away, I wouldn’t know how to live otherwise.

It amazes me how I can have the slightest amount of confidence. Maybe that is how confidence works: you are confident as long as you are certain. It doesn’t matter what you are certain of.

It gets annoying to realize the right response only after the window for it has passed. But it is nothing compared to the helplessness of thinking that it has always been out of my hands. The very core of my identity is flawed, and it has always been that way.

It feels more helpless to see that flaw in the eyes of others. When your mistakes are immediately forgiven, and when you are not expected to be any better. I sometimes wonder how many people who know me looked at me and thought to themselves: “I have so much to be grateful for” in the same way that statement is said when looking at terminally ill people.

It’s me against them, everyday. Even the closest people to me seem so distant at times. Like everything else that’s flawed in me, I notice my flaw but I cannot fix it. At times, I wish I wasn’t even able to tell when I’m doing something wrong. But I’m paranoid, and I can’t stop it.
Because I believe that the moment I stop being paranoid would be the moment I am most vulnerable for those who are plotting against me.

My mind is going away. I don’t know the medical term, but I know what I feel.

Everything good in my life I sought because I knew I had nothing else. It was one-dimensional; transcripts, awards, and any physical evidence I could find that I was good. Almost every time I am mentioned, the evidence is mentioned too. As if to balance out everything else about me. An average of two extremes.
Everything good in my life was the compensation I offered for my identity.

What I fear is that my mind will go before I have more evidence. Everything is in its right  ugly place now. But in a few years it might not be.

Thoughts of my little voice

The little voice, the slightly evil one, is speaking.
Though it’s late there’s still time. And it’s better to leave wondering about how great the future could have been, than to leave bitter about how terrible the past was.


The little voice is a young man now, and I don’t know if I can beat him in his prime and in my disciplined apathy.
I used to be a better debater. My most sensible argument was that difficulty is the price of greatness. Suffer now to rest later, and it’s better to have the last laugh.

But the voice is telling me a different narrative.
A man eating pebbles, and saving the cake he has for the end of the year. He wanted to earn the cake and be deserving of it. By the time he earned it, his stomach was so hardened; it craved nothing but pebbles. The cake, it was rotten and filled with bugs by then.

The plug is pulled on those who can’t experience life, but what about those who experience the worst of life?
No, they must live to preserve others. To give happiness, something they don’t have, to those who have hope. They spend the rest of their existence like that, mere objects.
The plug isn’t pulled when the patient is ready to die, but when the decision-maker feels less bothered by it.

The brave ones are in a better place, the cowardly keep waiting for something unknown at a time unknown.

If I die a miserable bitter old man, heaven will have to exist just before I die.

Airplanes, the worst of me, and the best of others

I have a developed a technique for overcoming my fear of airplanes. I look at the laughing children. I look the elderly. I look at the lovers and the loved ones. I conclude that no good force would allow this plane to fall, not even as a punishment for my inherent evilness.
I conclude that even if the plane did fall, I would grieve the people who had more to lose than myself.

Maybe what I fear isn’t the physical part of flying, but the memories I have in airplanes. It seems every crucial moment in my life involved leaving someone or something.
I remember the tears that forced themselves out of the face I held calm, as I left home back to college. I pretended to be sick and asked my older brother to stop at a clinic on our way to the airport. I wished they would say I had cancer, so that I could quit school and stay home without feeling like a failure.
I remember the interview with the big company. I remember saying to myself as they showed us around their building: “If everything I’ve been through was the price to get here, then I’ll gladly accept it.” The captain flew over the city and away, and my final share of that place was seeing it from afar. Nothing professional about a man with a crumbled suit and crushed pride.

But, for what it’s worth, I’ve never cried over the same cause twice. Leaving familiar places get less upsetting after a while. This is what the optimistic would call grit and perseverance. I think that’s exactly what I fear; not death, but the loss of life. With every flight I take, part of me is lost. The unfortunate way to become strong is to leave the weaker parts behind forever.

Weaker moments

Maybe only out of ignorance would a human detest a perfect being and his perfect plan.

Let us depart from my reproach and your ambiguous hints. Let us discuss and decide, and I hope to replace my ignorance with unshaken confidence. Take my weakness as a bargaining advantage, as I’m desperately looking to negotiate.

I will never understand you, until I understand natural disasters and unearned punishments. Because unless you assure me that my misery would not be just another natural disaster, I have no faith in your goodness and no respect for your twisted plan.

If I died either out of misery, or as a result of a natural disaster, both scenarios would fit perfectly with your perfect plan.

I reach the same conclusion in your presence and your absence. But in my weaker moments, I look to the sky and I pray.

Please, let your mercy come as a natural disaster this instant. Bury me in your flood. Cleanse the world of me. Cleanse my memory of the knowledge that I once was.

Describe to me the taste of honey

Describe to me the taste of honey,
offered by the hand of your lover,
when the night is just beginning,
and the moon is just listening,
when that night is all there was and all there will be.

Describe to me the feeling of the wind,
as it moves through your lover’s hair,
as it slows and as it moves faster,
as you inhale and exhale,
as the sight of of your lover’s waving hair expresses more life than your dearest breath.

I’ll describe to you my drink, and my moonless night.

200ml of poison, that’s enough to swim in pain, but not drown.
Enough to remember, acknowledge, and forget.
And on another indeterminate night, we shall recall again.
“We will pay the price of those memories as if it has never been paid before” (1).

200ml of poison, as I remember and forget.
Human when my mind reproaches, and human when it forgives.
My utmost expression of life is enough poison to remind me that I feel.
Have I told you the worst of all things?

Doesn’t it make you a little bit sad to know that we will be dead and forgotten?
That our dead bodies offer no home for memories?
Isn’t it more crushing to those with memories of sipping honey from sweeter hands?
The grounds that we walked on will welcome others. We will lie beneath them, passed and irrelevant. The memories will live neither above the ground nor below it.

Give me a sip of honey, so that I might live miserably by choice.
The tally is many bitter moonless nights,
and it cannot be repaid, not in one life nor in many.

Even the flood can’t save a yellow plant, and even the honey can’t soften a bitter heart.
The lesser pain is in knowing what wasn’t, the greater is in knowing what won’t be.
But the consolation, the weakest consolation, is that the happy and the miserable are equal after death.

 

(1) Source: The idea of repaying the price of memories as if they haven’t been paid before is something Shakespeare mentioned in “The sonnets and a lover’s complaint”

A long short story

How can I justify a greed for the unknown?
Well, it combines two misfortunes: ignorance and deprivation.

I want to be close enough to know what exists, but far enough to suffer alone without humiliation.
August 2014. “Is there anything out there that I cannot enjoy?”

The details of your beauty are too rich to be memorized at all times. I recall them a second, and forget them the next. Then comes the reconstruction.

Every time I see you, I get to be amazed by your beauty as if I have never seen you before. And every time, my heart beat accelerates trying to carry me next to you.
September 2014. “Unsent messages of a troubled lover (1)”

My pain, my pleasure. My share of heaven, and my due of hell. You have given me the highest amount of hope and fear.
September 2014. “Unsent messages of a troubled lover (2)”

See, the problem is, moths do not understand that they cannot acquire the light, and they keep crashing into it over and over and over. You might say I just need to “unlove” you, and to move on. But, see, the problem is, even if you were the most narcissistic woman, you will never have the slightest idea of the effect you have on me, and on every other moth
September 2014. “Unsent Messages of a troubled lover (3)”

I am aware of how my deceptive mind will tell me I will find someone like you, even though you are one-in-a-universe, one-in-an-eternity, One and only, unmatched and incomparable.
September 2014. “Unsent messages of a troubled lover (4)”

I will try to not talk about you, although I see you in the sun and the moon, in other women as the ideal they are trying to achieve (and are falling short of), and in other men as either their most valuable victory, their most humiliating defeat, or, for the unlucky ones, their most depriving ignorance.
October 2014. “An attempted closure”

I looked at you, but you only saw me. The way a falling leaf is seen this time of the year.

You were there, prettier and further from reach than ever. I was there falling all over again, as if I were seeing you for the first time.
October 2014. “The laws of probability”

My loneliness made me feel the length of nights,
and my conscience made me notice their gloominess,
and in a night as long and gloomy as tonight, I find myself surrounded by the most hideous of memories.
March 2015. “Nights like this”

Sleep does not tempt a heart whose ailment was longing.
The night is long, and I can think of you for eternity.
And if I silence my thoughts, I would still hear my heart knocking rapidly on a door that will never open.

Oh heart: die or beat slower. Let us rest either forever, or for tonight.
June 2015. “The memory of you, and a long night”

Oh, how far do you seem to me now.
Were you only in my imagination?
We will never meet, but have we ever met?
Have we ever met, my love? Have we ever met?
September 2015. “Memory or imagination?”

There is always an end, and it will only be when I can’t see those stars anymore.
Not like an unwatered plant that died of thirst. But like perfume that has completely spread into the air, becoming an infinitesimal part of it, but a part nonetheless.
February 2016. “The stars that rose above us both”

[The easiest part] is seeing you genuinely happy.
Why should it bother me?
Maybe it is something close to the definition of jealousy.

“Such is love; the easiest part of it is most difficult.”
June 2016. “The easiest part”

I look at you, and I avert my eyes.
I look at the sky, pretty beyond description and far beyond reach.
August 2016. “An unfortunate night”

It’s been two years, and I still remember the late days of August and the early days of September.
It’s wrong to remember after this much time, I admit.
That is why I fear time; not because it will make me forget you, but because it makes it more wrong to remember you.
But I ask of you: Do you remember when I said that the moon reminds me of you?
Time will pass, and I will be defeated.
I’ll see nothing in the moon except an ordinary planet, nothing in this Tuesday except a random Tuesday, and nothing in you except memories of feelings.
August 2016. “A random Tuesday”

Nothing remains but memories of feelings.

It must be part of the classic procedure. If the apology is pure, after it comes nothing.
September 2016. “A pure apology”