Sometimes, I would look into the past and realize that it’s not there anymore. Nothing that I had ever experienced is real. All the experiences that supposedly compose of my memory isn’t real. I have never felt loved. I have never felt happy. All that is real is the sadness that lays ahead.
I always reflect on the past, as if the only way I could relive the happiness that I had experienced in the past was to reflect on it. Or write about it. But, now, I have reached another point in my life. There is nothing about my past that was real. There is no point in reflecting on the experienced in my life that aren’t real. I used to consider my memories to be precious. After all, my memories are my memories. The experiences that compose my memories supposedly have shaped me into the person that I am right now. This is a belief that I have had for so long. I would treasure my past memories for the pure reason that it is one of the few things in the world that seem inseparable to my identity.
But I know now. There is nothing real about the past. There is nothing real about the past. There is nothing real about the past. The past isn’t real.
There was a part of my life when I genuinely believed that there was a reason that my existence is justified. Otherwise, I am just floating around in the world without purpose. Not that there is anything wrong with living without purpose. I always thought the idea was purposeless. And so, I have always strove to create meaning in my own life. For a long time, I thought that I could derive meaning in my life through success. Then, after that phase, I thought I could derive meaning through making a positive contribution unto the lives of others. Then, after that phase, I thought I could derive meaning in my life through loving and being loved. Now, I have come to the conclusion that I have been deceiving me this entire time.
The world has revealed three truths to me,
that I will never be successful for I am inadequate.
that I will never do good to others for I am wicked.
that I will never be loved for I am unlovable.
It is a realization that has come from a long line of other realizations and will follow with more realizations, I’m sure. The world has rejected me. This I know. But, sometimes, amidst the speed of modern life, I forget to realize. I fill my life with enough distractions to separate my mind from the lucidity that I am experiencing right now. This is a tendency, an instinct, and I have no control over my lack of will to exercise power against my tendencies towards deviating from a state of sadness. I am so sad right now, but it is clear. I see the landscape of my life after the illusory cover had been peeled off. I see my life. It is disgusting. My life is disgusting. But, I see the it all in its realness. It is not beauty. It is vile. I am disgusting. I see the truth.
I’m sure in a little while, I’ll find another reason to live. This is irrational nature of the rational human spirit. It could take the form of art or whatever. I’m sure there are plenty of authors and artists who have articulated a reason to live better than me, and I’ll appropriate one of those ideas for my own life. I know this as a certainty. But, right now, I am a moment of clarity, when my tendency to rationalize my own experiences has not re-framed my life in the illusion of meaning. I am at a moment of clarity right now, when I understand the extent that I have been rejected by the universe. I finally understand that my wickedness has made me impossible to love. I hope this clarity will carry into the future, but I already know it won’t. But, right now, at this moment in time, I know. I know that I don’t deserve to be loved.
It was somewhere during my freshman year when I realized that I don’t deserve any of the achievements that I have accomplished in my life. As a result, I don’t think about my success much anymore. I don’t deserve any of my success. What is the point of attempting to quantify my own success when the answer is already present? What is the point of trying to prove myself to anything when I already understood that there is no point in attempting to challenge the unfettered reality of determination? I was not destined to be successful. I don’t deserve to be successful. It is not subject to repetition because I already know this. This is truth. And, once I understand truth, there is little point in challenging something to be objectively true.
I only realized that I was not a good person recently. It was one of my friends that had brought up the concept over brunch did I learn to apply the idea to my own life. For so much of my life, I had convinced myself that I wanted to make a positive contribution to to the world through public policy or international development or whatever. I defaulted to the idea that if I choose a career that created a positive externality to the world, then I would be able to justify to myself that I was a good person. After all, isn’t that how you quantify good — through actions? Perhaps actions could be a standard, but this standard does not apply to me. I am not a good person. That is truth. No matter how many positive externalities I create in my life, I will never be able to redeem the wickedness of my nature. I am evil.
Each time I had reached a disillusionment, I found another way to redeem myself through another means of pursuing meaning. Starting my junior year of college, I had been obsessed with this idea of love. I thought that love was the only idea that could redeem all of my inadequacy and wickedness that I have been born with. After all, when you are in a state of love, then. And, for so long, I had convinced myself that what I felt at the time was love. But, now I realize that I was, once again, lying to myself. There is no such thing as love, at least, not for me. Love is an idea reserved for individuals who deserve to live. I, on the other hand, do not deserve to live. Until I find another reason to live. Lying to myself. Before, once again, my illusion is shattered.
I’ve been listening to this song called, “Where Do I Go” for a lot this summer, and I think it really captures a point I have been trying to make.
I don’t know where to go. So often do I wish that I were dead. There is very little that is keeping me alive at this point, except instinct. It is a question that constantly repeats in my head, “Where do I go again” I ask myself, “Where do I go again?” as if I once knew where I would ago. But, when I realize that I had never knew, I ask myself, “Where do I go again?” “Where do I go again” is a question that does not have an answer because the creation of the question itself is based off an ontological fault. It is an impossible question, “Where do I go again?”, and there is no answer that could resolve the fundamental schism that is located within the question itself. It is a guiding question, an question without end. It is life. “Where do I go again?”
Quite a haunting question. Innit.
“Where do I go again?”
“Where do I go again?”
“Where do I go again?”
“Where do I go again?”
“Where do I go again?”
“Where do I go again?”
“Where do I go again?”
shades of gwei 