[identity profile] donteatacowman.livejournal.com
I feel like I get abandoned a lot.

No, no, not abandoned, there's no betrayal, no one with harsh intentions, I have people, I could find more people if I really wanted, really needed to. No, not abandoned. Just alone. But I like to be alone.

Don't I?
[identity profile] donteatacowman.livejournal.com
Does anyone else post things they wish people they knew (in Real Life) would find them, and at the same time, both hoping and knowing they won't?
[identity profile] donteatacowman.livejournal.com

I don’t understand…

How can people exist, day to day, content with their lives as they are?

There are too many questions, and the answers are transparent, bringing more confusion.

The very nature of our reality—what is real? What is false?

You know The Matrix, probably. I do, even though I’ve never seen it. Is there really any way we can ever know for sure that what we see, feel, think, is true?

To quote Edgar Allen Poe, is everything we see or seem but a dream within a dream?
As far as my mind can reach, there’s absolutely no way to tell.

The writer of Ecclesiastes got it, I think. He pursued everything the world had to offer but felt no value within it. The only people he saw who were happy were the ones who lived in ignorance, taking worth from their work, a job well done. It didn’t matter that their work would someday be destroyed, whether by People, Nature, or even Time. The happy ones didn’t question their world; they just lived in it.

Is that truly living?

Apparently.

It’s just mind-boggling, the many things we take on the sole reason of Faith, whether well-founded or not. How do we know that the Past really happened, that the Future will exist? For all we know, everything before the Present is but a false memory, and the Future is but a hope. All we know—actually know—is the Present. But even that Present could be an illusion, a lie. Like in Alice in Wonderland—how do we know that we’re not just figments of another’s imagination?

Cogito, ergo sum. I think, therefore I am. A solid piece of reasoning. But—how do we know that others think? I do not feel your feelings—I do not think you, therefore you are not. I do not know that anyone other than me truly exists. Perhaps I’m the only one in the universe; what a lovely thought, to be alone for eternity.

But I propose that that is precisely the reason why people are afraid to die. They know only their own experiences from their own perspective—that will die with them. If they die, their entire reality will cease to exist. One person’s death is the end of the world, of their world, anyway. And they have no idea what will come next.

How many things do we take as fact on a daily basis? What, when under reason’s fire, will stand strong and true? Our teachers ask us, “What is truth? Is it absolute or relative?”

Hah, we don’t know. It is as simple as that. The only way to make peace with our strange, strange universe that may be fiction, that may be illusion, that may be lie, is to admit that we know nothing.

Nothing.

All we “know” is ourselves, and even that we don’t know well.

All we can do is fling ourselves into what we perceive as the known universe and have faith that we won’t fall, while we admit we might. We don’t “know” an iota.

Accept it, and move on as best we can.

That is, as I imagine I know, the direction of humanity.

[identity profile] jupiter-lies.livejournal.com
[apologies for any weirdness: written on my phone while I was trying to sleep before giving up and then posting this ...]


Perhaps we romanticise mental illness precisely because it is anything but beautiful. It's an illness, it's not supposed to be fun. But it's easier to make it something bearable, a dream of something ethereal, because if we view it through the gothic and romantic paradigms we can deal a little more easily while we struggle to gain control of our terrifyingly powerful monsters. 

Poetry, prose, graveyards and midnight - 4 o'clock takes on a presence which haunts, but dolefully, more like a black veil than a suffocating plastic bag which threatens to take the soul. I can speak only for myself, I suppose, but I do not imagine I am completely alone. To put something awful into a poetry of words makes it a little easier; perhaps when we view the sickening ache as a longing which has some purpose, even if that purpose is merely to appear outwardly beautiful, then there is some point in the suffering. 

Mental illness beats us and breaks us, but the harder it works the deeper it entrenches us in a world where winter and darkness give refuge, not suffering, and our scars are marks of beauty instead of pain. Of course, there is always the knife's edge of life, and in illness there is no control - our lives are at stake. 

But we struggle to overlay our images to keep us going, to give us some glimmer of hope that our despair is worth something, and that one day we will survive to see dawn and continue on another, less darkened path.

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