If Only The Lies Will Stop...

"You see a nuclear weapon's intention isn't for protection but destruction. I'm betting that the invention has a function to determinate how much to exterminate..." -FUTURE, Dub FX


I am left-handed.
I can stay all alone in a coffee shop and feel good.
I do most things on my own. In short, I'm independent in my own way.
A friend coined me as an "alien".
A professor told me that I'm weird.
I feel as if my head is going to burst into pieces from all the thoughts inside it.
A photographer told me that I think too much.
My professor told me that I'm too idealistic.

Is this a bad thing? Is there something wrong with me? Or is it the just environment and the society? Is this happening because of all the lies that have been feed to me? All of the documentaries, films, and newspapers that have affected me and my mentality? Or is this because I'm just waking up?

I'm aware of all the crap about individual differences. I'm aware how of family upbringing, culture, society, and the environment affects a person and help an individual shape her as a growing person, a growing piece of meat with health issues because of all the chemicals and whatnot affecting her system?

I have to admit that I have so much in mind that I don't know where to focus and what to do, what exactly to think about, and, as it always has been, what to feel. Everything affects me as an individual without a huge circle of peers to talk about my insights and my whereabouts. Little talks about education, politics, religion, society, and current events fire me up, heating my body and make my brain run fast like in a marathon competing against everything that I sometimes forget that other people have the right to voice out their own opinion with freedom and explain their side.

I don't want to be biased. I don't want to have a hero-complex state of thought that might someday would grow inside me and eat me up until it can blow the balloon which is my ego for my shirts might not fit through my head and my legs would give out from the weight of it.

Yes, I will concede to the real fact that I am idealistic. It's because of all these frustrations that I have. The frustrations that I have developed from my low self esteem, from the reading materials that I immerse myself in and from my hatred towards the things that I cannot change. After all, I'm just a tiny spec of dust in this race of mankind, overshadowed by the people who are oozing and reeking with guts, name, power, intelligence, sharp wit, and so on.

I don't know what I lack, I don't know what I have and I am confused beyond doubt that I would always keep on ranting and blabbing about all of the little things that I want to change for the better. Like dreams about founding a Cancer foundation for hopeless little innocent kids, like fighting for the rights of people to promote openness in the public media, straightening out all of the wrong things in the society and what not. Justice, Peace, Equality, Freedom. All of the moral values that matter and now, the media with the magnifier, which we call the telly, are changing the views of the people on what is moral and what is not.

There is a reason why people are marching on the streets. There are reasons why people set themselves on fire. There are lots of reasons why people shout and cry out on the streets with their hearts breaking. Everyone and everything has issues of their own. Everyone have their own reasons why this and that should be like this and like that. It's all so confusing, all so biased, all having weak proofs and arguments, all having strong points that lack determination and wit and perfect analogy. Everything needs a reason like how a courtroom runs. It's always a case-to-case basis with all the norms in the society, all the taboos, and the phenomena which we have no control over.

Maybe I'll end up losing my sanity over these kind of things. Maybe I'll end up in a nut-house with lots of shrinks determining my future, enclosed in a white box of concrete and fed with hospital food that helps increase and decrease all of the wrong and right particles inside my functioning body. Maybe they'll drug me to sleep so I could stop thinking. Maybe they'll drug me with something else so that I would feel like I'm just floating in the air with my hospital gown, maybe I'm going to become a vegetable.

I want to help the world but I'm under-qualified. I lack so much in the wits department and my grades in school are like hanging on the edge towards another extended year repeating the same subjects over and over again. This is a sad thing, a total waste of money, a total waste of time. And the thoughts in my head will be like: "what to do... what to do..." "where to go... where to go..."

Obsession is Like Fucking

You decided to make up your mind and go on writing about something that you have failed to do so a couple of useless nights ago.

Paper.

Pencil.

Coffee.

Cigarettes.

You then feel energy and art creep through your veins like an injected drug until you feel the right highness that will summon up your ability to write. And what more better subject to tackle is the very essence that you always have. The need and want for alcohol, nicotine, and whatnot.

Obsession.

Does it really make any logical sense? I think not. Why?

Well, for starters, it becomes a cycle, a part of your daily routine and your life that you cannot avoid and you don't even want to avoid, ever, until the time comes that you discover the senseless truth that you have been wasting much of your precious time indulging in the guilty pleasure that comes with the whole package.

In this course of obsession, you find that you cannot function as a human being without it, but then it will make you feel odd, trapped in your own little world that you find yourself alone and no one could ever understand you, see through you, and feel the same exact feeling that you do. The days will turn into weeks, the weeks will turn into months and you feel that you are lost in this fictional world, created by the power of the human mind. You, then, can no longer function in the real world and you find yourself completely strange and alienated once you go out of your room.

Insomnia and whatnot will devour you but you don't mind at all, your health doesn't matter to you anymore, for you have surrendered yourself to the guilty pleasure, ignoring the calls of doing physical activities that will make you feel fit and healthy and you then decide that you are not like the other people around you who are most able to function without difficulty in the real world. You can't go to school. You can't go to work. You can't socialize. And this, you did it because of the safety net of your obsession. Even eating is something that does not bother you anymore.

But are you really wasting your time? I think not. It's better to drown yourself in the sea of this guilty pleasure feeling a strong purge and locks of emotions than idling by, feeling bored, and just staring up the white ceiling, listening to the humming and buzzing of the air conditioner while tossing and turning on your pillow or fiddling with the hems of your comforter.

Then, the much awaited time will arrive unexpectedly, out of nowhere, mingling with the air your breathe, perforating through the thick smoke of your lighted cigarette stick. It will then make you realize that you are strongly repulsed by it. It, the dawning of truth, will make you sad and angry, confused and somewhat irritated that you have been tricked by your own mind, your heart, and your very own individuality and you allowed it without thinking of the pros and the cons, without being completely logical that you have even abandoned your own philosophical and political intellect.

This realization, that you have failed to notice before, will be drawn to you and it will eat you up whole. Wanting nothing and leaving you no choice but to let go with a heavy heart and unleashed tears. Let go of the regurgitating and sick obsession-like electricity trance. Then you will want nothing but liberation of the self, of your internal and calloused sick loneliness that is rather very much normal until you forget that your ego, id, and super-ego circles you like three blasted goddesses of you don't even know what.

You will soon realize that you're not the only one who is suffering from the kinky chains and venomous pangs of this heavy obsession but all you want is, again, liberation and utmost freedom from this psychotic prison and so, you make up your mind slowly and with hesitation, ready to let go and ready to give up and soar up the grey sky like a vulture, wanting to explore the wholeness of the world and ready to pounce on any cliche and dead thing, body, or heart that lays open for you bleeding with flesh and gut and this is for you only, and you then want to feel the harsh gust of the wind go past your skin until you can feel it co-mingling with your blood and then your eyes can see everything that is everywhere: reality.

Hence, you find yourself completely lost and sick in the stomach, eyes red from the gush of the strong wind and wings tired from your flight, making you feel completely weary and used, wanting more of everything, wanting more of the obsession and the powerful feeling that it makes you feel until you find another subject for your obsession, leaving your old guilty pleasure completely haggard and rotten.

Then you think, is this really your purpose? Is this really the end of your hunt? Confusion will overwhelm your being then you dispose yourself at nothing but it motivated you to give up and make you think that you have just lost your own identity somewhere in between during the cycle of your obsession. Dying isn't even an option, going back isn't too. Then what will you do? You are not even optimistic enough to let go and just to go and march forward as if nothing happened. You are now shaped by this obsession, stoned, and mocked that all you have to do is sit there and crumple into nothing while crying your eyes out until the lightning will struck you blazing directly your deathbed.

What is this really all about? I guess this is like fucking but you know, you have a reason. You get this feeling, out of nowhere, to fuck someone and you go on your dig until you can find someone to be the subject of your sexual exploits. You go in somewhere, at some time with the person that you have chosen, and get hyped up, arousing each other until you feel the adrenaline rush of blood towards your member. You pounce and pound until you come then you look at your body, covered in filth and then you feel disgusted by your own self so you decide to stop it ever. But then, upon the course of time, you feel the need and the want of it, you feel that you miss it until you go on your hunt once more and do it again and again until you want more more more and more of it.

You just need and want this to get the obsessions out of your system until you have forgotten about it and then later in your life, you will stumble upon the obsession again, remembering your past life and what it has done to you then you decided not to think again and with the blink of an eye, you want to focus and become sick in the goo of obsession once again.