I walk now while looking at the ground, exactly like I used to do a few years ago. Other walkers are nothing more than physical objects that I should not collide with.

I began returning to the point on this circle where I originally started. One could say that anything that happened between now and then is of no value, since I am exactly where I started.

I free myself from failure by not trying, and from deprivation by not desiring.

A lesser form of freedom that is sought only to save what remains of one’s pride.

Freedom through reduction. The senses are reduced to perceiving only the absolute necessities, and the mind is reduced to being the machine that decides based on what the senses perceive.

This is freedom. I did not choose to be deprived, but I can choose to not desire what I was deprived of. It is freedom of toothaches by pulling them all out and becoming toothless.

I imagine this to be the closest one can get to being an animal or a plant. Both would offer no justification for their will to live except that they were hard-wired to avoid death.


The laws of probability

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

I thought by now I must have gotten over it, but I was as far from that as I am from winning your favor.

Through you, I imagined our unlived past and our disjointed futures.

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. This time, however, my hopes were tamed and my expectations were cut as soon as they grew.

I had one option that I was forced to choose: to let go.

I wish you all the best, and I regret I could not be a part of it.


See you again, when the laws of probability lead me to randomly be wherever you are.

The problem with letting go

“Letting go” sounds much more physical than it is.

It is a change of perspective more than a change in actions. It is viewing something not as part of the controllable present anymore, but as part of the unchangeable past. It is believing that nothing can be done about it, and if there was, it should not be done now. It is an acceptance that what already happened is all there is, and all there will ever be. The possibilities, that were hoped to happen, become understood as vacuous; they were possible only in the sense that they did not contradict the laws of physics. In hindsight, only facts are important and possibilities mean nothing.

Although it can be hastened, it cannot be delayed. Time dilutes everything, eventually. The pain that you should feel as long as your loss stands will be taken away, carving more helplessness into an already weak structure. Not only to fail, but to be denied the ability to truly “appreciate” every detail of that failure. The pain that remains is a general one. An indistinguishable pile that was formed by failures of the past, only larger by a degree of one failure. Immovable, and continuously growing. Once, it seemed to be a reasonable price for everything else. Now, it has pushed everything out and it is all that can be seen. Troubling to deal with, and too troubling to ignore.

A distinction has to be made between failure as a cost of learning and failure as an unchangeable characteristic. A characteristic that continues to define every new memory.

The importance of breakfast

The ugly known was behind us, and in front us was exemption from pain through exemption from everything.
I reminded him of everything, and he raised no objections. We were in complete agreement.
I didn’t want to rush him; it had to come naturally, flowing out, not being flushed out.

We took a moment to mourn our failure to matter to anyone. We knew if anyone was affected by this, it would be only through projecting it to their own lives; what happens to us could happen to them, and that’s sad.

I waited, and he stood there motionless. “A spectacle of imbecility only to be equaled by himself.”(1)
I recognized his answer the same way I recognized my job applications were rejected: through waiting. A silent “no” that I couldn’t argue with. A more delicate rejection. A rejection that utilizes how hope always exists but gets smaller through time; after enough time has passed, you will begin to hear that silent “no”.

He defied every argument and emotion that we both knew and have known for years.
For his tears I held no more pity; he disgusted me. His incompetence was evident, and it has condemned me to live solely for the fear of dying. From now on, I would live because no car has hit me, and my binge-smoking has not yet burned my body from the inside.

We sat, enemies that cannot be separated. His incompetence will limit me, and my thoughts will torture him. We painted white over all of this; A new page, we thought. Hope came about, teasing with a sarcastic smile: “Everything will be better tomorrow. Trust me, I never lie.”

Is there a greater cowardice than being frightened of the act of fleeing? Than being frozen by fear to remain motionless, too scared to run away but also too scared to fight?

I passed by a grocery store later that evening, and bought bread and some cheese. I ran out of both, and I needed them for tomorrow’s breakfast.

(1) Charles Dickens. Great Expectations.

A history defined by the tears

I believe my character can be very accurately explained by the moments when I cried.

I cried when I was 15, after we spent summer with relatives. I had such a good time that I knew it could not be reproduced. We were growing, and we knew a few years later some of us would be in college. Furthermore, at that time two or three years in age difference mattered a lot more than when I was 10. I was more aware of the effect of time than I have ever been.

I cried when I was 16, after my father told me I was rejected from an abroad summer research. He said he received the message on his phone. I thought he was teasing me since my grades were a lot higher than required. He smiled, and his eyes showed sympathy. I looked to my mother in distress, she had the same smile and the same sympathetic look. I slowly escaped to the back of our house, and cried where no one could see.

I cried when I was 17, at the end of a school competition in eastern Europe. Everything was so different, and I wanted to be there. They seemed to be happy and I wasn’t. “Why were my features different than theirs? Why wasn’t I born there? Maybe then I would have been as happy as they seemed to be.” It was then that I became the most religious and patriotic in my life. Only the promise of an eternal life in heaven with everything I want could make me see any point in living. I prayed in nights, and I truly felt close to God at points. I also began seeing my national identity as very important. I read old books, and tried to speak the way they did. A subtle attempt to convince myself that I was what I wanted to be, and that their happiness (which I could not obtain) was not what I wanted.

I cried when I was 18 on my mother’s shoulder. I was leaving for a college far away. We weren’t close then, me and her. I would say we were even more distant than we should have been. I was scared of the unknown. But I chose to exchange the ugly known for the unknown.

I cried when I was 19 in my dorm room. I felt very lonely when tens of people were in the same floor as me. A year has passed during which I have walked alone everyday in a swarm of people. I used to think they could not detect my loneliness.

I cried when I was 20, when me and my instincts fought over one fundamental view of “the right decision” and the action to be done. Even the promise of heaven could not help me then. It all seemed to me as the drug I administered to myself in order to compensate for my hatred of how things were. It seemed like using drugs or alcohol; I was constructing a world where I would be happy, but I became aware that it was not of the same kind my real world was. If there was a God, I would have hated him. If there wasn’t, then I was doomed to my life and nothing more.

Although I was calmest, in years, when I was 21, I cried occasionally for a general feeling of unhappiness. Nothing specific.

Over the last month I have cried so many times for many different reasons.

Yesterday, I made full use of the fact that this is a school holiday. I went to one of my class rooms at night, the lights were off, and very few students were on campus (the unlucky ones, I thought. Felt some sort of a bond between us). I sat down in that empty classroom and cried for a while, and then I pushed the seats out of my way and laid on the ground.

Is it so irrational to surrender while it is still a choice?

When the battle has already been lost, it means nothing to surrender. The harm, all the harm, has been done. The little hope left in the future will be comforting, because it means giving up is still a choice. When there is no hope, I will be forced to surrender, and I will be defeated.

I will save us from that fate, I will save us.

Strength and Confidence

I can feel my body almost starting to shut down by itself. My teeth hurt, my head hurts, and my face has an influx of acnes and random spots. It is somewhat relieving to know that he too has given up with me. That is not at all shameful. We had hopes and we worked for them. We failed, and failed, and failed. We became too bitter. We now became more bothered by others’ fortune than by our own misfortune (not that we had control over either). Old and unfixable, we became. When we were younger we had years to improve. Now those years are part of the past and part of the problem to be fixed.

I, myself, am in a terrible state as well. I daydream too often, and too deep that I lose awareness of time and place. My struggle everyday has become to avoid crying. I see the things I want around me, I become aware of how much I want them, and I become very aware of how unlikely it is to actually achieve them. I am as weak as human, and a passing hope carries me through once in a while. I start to interpret every event as an indication of a potential gain. But I learned that hope is the torment of the loser. There was a time where I shielded myself from “wanting things” and thought I was on the right track to being where I wanted to be. I was content, although an observer would have thought I was sad. I grew, and hope grew with me. I wanted more things and I had hope that I could obtain them. Why I did not obtain them is of little relevance now. My character has been engraved into my body, and neither of us can be fixed now. Hope has led me to this desperate state of weakness and doubts.

Through the weakness and doubts I managed to salvage one last piece of strength and confidence. A strength and confidence from being too aware of every doubt and weakness. A shining of the highest magnitude. A calmness of having an objective view and evaluation. A shield against hope and its corresponding deprivation. I can avoid hope’s tricks now, since I know he only lets me closer to what I want only so I can desire it more and then suffer its deprivation more.

As a kid, I used to get over any physical or emotional pain by pinching myself as hard as I could. The pinching was intended to be so severe that the original pain would pale in comparison. It was a relief to know that the worst scenario was something I controlled. (Oh, how I pity my younger self as much as I pity this one).

I think: Don’t I still have control over the worst scenario?

You will see me as an enemy, and you will hate me. But it is necessary that the worst pain you feel must be caused by me, not by life nor by any other reason. It must be controlled, regulated. And for every failure of yours I will incur the greatest punishment. Then, at least, our many wounds would have been cut by our own hands. If pain is inevitable, then I prefer to endure its extreme by choice and by my own hands. Then, at least, I would protect my piece of strength and confidence from the weakness and doubts of having it inflicted upon me by life (or any other reason).

A separation

Lately, me and the man in the mirror feel like two separate entities. I can see him, but he could only hear my thoughts in his head. His appearance is no longer associated with me.

I see him in the mirror, and I feel pity for him. He knows it, and his face starts reshaping in a way that makes him look even more pathetic. He seems sad, for he cries whenever I check on him. But I also see some helpless anger mixed with his sadness. His regret is countered by his helplessness; he could not have done otherwise, and cannot change that now.

It surprises me that whenever I remind him of any part of his (recent or old) past he smiles for about half a second. I wonder if he finds it funny and ironic, or if his smile is just a silent acknowledgment of his worthlessness. His smile is then forced by the other half-second to adjust allowing a natural passage of tears. He cries for his luck, and he cries a little more for knowing that I watch him. I guess he considers me a separate entity too, and he feels even more pathetic that someone gets to see him in that state.

I would have said that he was a master of self-control, since he did not show others what I extracted of him. But he has not earned a concerned look of anyone he knew, not even a fraction of that which I had upon him for many years.

Once, we were one and the same. My well-being was his, and his was mine. But, over time, we have not only become separate, but we have become the reason why each of us is falling apart. He was guided by what I thought, and I was limited by what he was able to do.

In a way, me and him are fed up with our fruitless relationship. I admit I may have demanded too much, but I only did so because he provided too little. Yes, I have addressed him very harshly and called him names, but you have no idea how laid back he was. He sat back and watched everything from the sidelines. He was so terrified of everything that he rarely did anything. He thought he had everything he needed, but now he comes out of his cave feeling depraved and blaming me. I had no control over him, and he has known that ever since he won our bloodiest fight two years ago. I was right but he was (and might still be) incapable of doing the right thing.

We have reached the point where the nicest feeling I can hold for him is pity, and where my safety from him is only guaranteed by the fact that he cannot physically reach me.

An Attempted Closure

[Deleted on 01/17/2015]

[Restored on 04/17/2016]

I think: One campus, I am there and you are there. Between us are constants (like our schedules), probability laws (how likely I am to randomly see you), your aversion to me, and a legal document dictating that I am not to contact you in any shape or form.

On my own, I figured there should be no physical mention of you anymore. My broken pieces have not been moved since you left them. I thought if you did not like their original form, there was no point of reassembling them and finding that their cracks have made them even less valuable and less likely to impress you. To reiterate on what you already know is repetition, and I want to spare you and myself that. Of course, I have moved some of the smaller shards I’ve found through the mess, just to be at least doing something. I did not seek to reconstruct myself out of them but I needed at the very least a functional body. In those smaller shards I learned new things that, while not repetitive, must never be told to anyone. If you doubt my judgment, listen to this one: I became incapable of finding beauty in any female anymore, because I judge beauty with you as the standard. (I told you, nobody ever needs to know about those ugly shards).

In short, if I talk anymore I would either bore you, or disgust you.

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.

To me, this is no easy task because I have some unanswered questions. Why? Would you have said yes in other circumstances? Is it something fundamental about me that cannot be changed?

For a while, I thought if you answered my questions I would be able to move on. But it is obvious to me now that my questions are similar to what a kid would ask if he didn’t get to do something. If they were answered, he would ask more and more endlessly, and he would only stop when he is told “yes.”

Of us, there will be no memory, except for legal papers (our names next to each other were a pleasant sight, despite their surroundings) and your bothered message that I have accepted as my share of you.

Of you, there will forever be a memory as an extreme of sadness as you are of beauty.

I could regret everything, but I accept it as the cost of being aware of you.

The Three Of Us

I am running away from a past that is growing uglier and stronger by the day, to a future that is running away from me.

My future knows that I expect him to be a little better for every misfortune of my past. He knows that I view my past as the price I pay for a triumphant future. He knows my expectations are higher than my colossal monster of a past. He is as afraid of me as I am of my past, because the closer me and my past get to him the smaller he becomes.

He knows if I reached him and realized his wretchedness, there would be nothing for me to chase, and nothing to give me the motivation to continue running.