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A haunting worry.
Category Poetry / Abstract
Species Unspecified / Any
Size 50 x 50px
File Size 763 B
I like this a lot.
And often, the inevitability of death something that I've found my mind enjoys to ponder.
It too haunts me.
But I remind myself of how much I love stargazing, and almost being able to breathe in the realization that my affairs don't mean much to the stars. To those very, very distant planets and other celestial structures our race has hardly been able to reach.
Yet, I've always thought there was something kind of precious about that, about how we haven't yet understood all there is to be about the universe.
But at the same time, from what we know, we're but a product of it.
The stars remind me of a lot of things, but the more I look out, the more I find myself introspecting, in deeper and deeper thought every time. What is there to be of my life after I have truly passed? Will death bring me something I've always wanted: contentment?
We are all nothing after all . . . or so the some of us believe.
All of those who know the answer to what lies after life have never lived to tell, but still. . .
There is a part of myself that holds out a little blooming flower of hope that possibly, possibly maybe humans are more than just spacedust.
And however much I am reminded that such a wish is to wilt in vain, that small fragment of my personality persists to hope.
And then I'd just stare out in the shrouding twilight upon this grassy hill, the wind cradling me as I ruminate.
And I think,
"Man. What creatures these humans are, and can be. . ."
And often, the inevitability of death something that I've found my mind enjoys to ponder.
It too haunts me.
But I remind myself of how much I love stargazing, and almost being able to breathe in the realization that my affairs don't mean much to the stars. To those very, very distant planets and other celestial structures our race has hardly been able to reach.
Yet, I've always thought there was something kind of precious about that, about how we haven't yet understood all there is to be about the universe.
But at the same time, from what we know, we're but a product of it.
The stars remind me of a lot of things, but the more I look out, the more I find myself introspecting, in deeper and deeper thought every time. What is there to be of my life after I have truly passed? Will death bring me something I've always wanted: contentment?
We are all nothing after all . . . or so the some of us believe.
All of those who know the answer to what lies after life have never lived to tell, but still. . .
There is a part of myself that holds out a little blooming flower of hope that possibly, possibly maybe humans are more than just spacedust.
And however much I am reminded that such a wish is to wilt in vain, that small fragment of my personality persists to hope.
And then I'd just stare out in the shrouding twilight upon this grassy hill, the wind cradling me as I ruminate.
And I think,
"Man. What creatures these humans are, and can be. . ."
The long-winded MindBleeding is totally appreciated.
I am a nihilist, so I really don't see anything in our existence. Some find it kinda depressing, but I find it a bit liberating. But that being said, I still feel like we need our own purposes. We can't just live life without an idea of what we want out of it. And being unable to accomplish that before death is quite terrifying. The idea of accomplishing it and not feeling content when death comes is also another scary thought.
All in all, it is interesting how little we are. Whether we are more than nothing, I have no idea, but it is charming that we're here, living our lives. There's something a bit wonderful in it all.
I am a nihilist, so I really don't see anything in our existence. Some find it kinda depressing, but I find it a bit liberating. But that being said, I still feel like we need our own purposes. We can't just live life without an idea of what we want out of it. And being unable to accomplish that before death is quite terrifying. The idea of accomplishing it and not feeling content when death comes is also another scary thought.
All in all, it is interesting how little we are. Whether we are more than nothing, I have no idea, but it is charming that we're here, living our lives. There's something a bit wonderful in it all.
I am something of a nihilist myself, albeit with an apparent hope for something beyond our existence. Although I'll never really know if we're greater than what we feel we are, I agree. I strive to find a sort of purpose to my life (most of which I've discovered in writing), but there remains the parts I'll never truly be able to understand.
When I was younger, I used to wonder if ghosts were just people who died feeling discontentment about their lives. I had realized that death was something rather inescapable, so in my writings I dabbled subtly with the idea of not overcoming death, but rather finding solace in the fact that we are to die.
A lot of my writings have to do with probability, but specifically, the possibility of situations that can be perceived as something real, something that's probably happened to someone who lived a long time ago, or in our modern era.
I like writing about concepts that I had little to no experience with, and I do so because I desire to further my understand in those concepts. I write about death because I don't want to see it as an end (or, on the other hand, simply speculate on whether or not it could be), and I write about probable events that happen to people I make up in my head because I want to feel their emotions as though they were actual people, to understand their pain and perhaps empathize even with something I have never truly felt before.
But that's just the infrastructure of fiction, I suppose: lie after fabricated lie to reveal or ignite a truth about this universe we cannot deny.
I guess that's why I'm a storyteller: I want to let others know what makes me feels happy, sad, frantic, annoyed, anxious, empty or accomplished and so on without having to say just that.
And I suppose I write poetry to bring a sort of life to these thoughts I keep having . . . whether I truly understand them, or not.
Regardless, probably one of my favourite things to write about is the fact that I am still breathing -- in, and out -- and that, if I place my hand on my chest, I can still feel my heart's repetitive whisper.
Again, and again.
And that I am here, along with people whose own complexities are something so intricate and so beautiful in their complex nature that they almost seem simple . . . that's why I call the human psyche a collection of mirror shards that, when put all together, form the shape of a person's silhouette.
. . .and then I grow quiet for a second, and let the rest of the world's sounds come across my ears.
In.
Out.
Breathing.
I remain breathing.
When I was younger, I used to wonder if ghosts were just people who died feeling discontentment about their lives. I had realized that death was something rather inescapable, so in my writings I dabbled subtly with the idea of not overcoming death, but rather finding solace in the fact that we are to die.
A lot of my writings have to do with probability, but specifically, the possibility of situations that can be perceived as something real, something that's probably happened to someone who lived a long time ago, or in our modern era.
I like writing about concepts that I had little to no experience with, and I do so because I desire to further my understand in those concepts. I write about death because I don't want to see it as an end (or, on the other hand, simply speculate on whether or not it could be), and I write about probable events that happen to people I make up in my head because I want to feel their emotions as though they were actual people, to understand their pain and perhaps empathize even with something I have never truly felt before.
But that's just the infrastructure of fiction, I suppose: lie after fabricated lie to reveal or ignite a truth about this universe we cannot deny.
I guess that's why I'm a storyteller: I want to let others know what makes me feels happy, sad, frantic, annoyed, anxious, empty or accomplished and so on without having to say just that.
And I suppose I write poetry to bring a sort of life to these thoughts I keep having . . . whether I truly understand them, or not.
Regardless, probably one of my favourite things to write about is the fact that I am still breathing -- in, and out -- and that, if I place my hand on my chest, I can still feel my heart's repetitive whisper.
Again, and again.
And that I am here, along with people whose own complexities are something so intricate and so beautiful in their complex nature that they almost seem simple . . . that's why I call the human psyche a collection of mirror shards that, when put all together, form the shape of a person's silhouette.
. . .and then I grow quiet for a second, and let the rest of the world's sounds come across my ears.
In.
Out.
Breathing.
I remain breathing.
That is incredibly deep, my friend.
I understand your use of poetry and writing. I do the same. It is my method of unleashing my inner emotions and thoughts. I don't always completely understand them, but when they are there, they get written. Sometimes I don't even understand what I am really feeling until I write it down into a poem, and then it all makes much more sense. I hope what I write can express my way of thoughts and feelings to others who both do and don't see the world the same as I do.
Being alive is a magical thing. Life itself is magical, even in its seemingly meaninglessness. With all the mysteries there are and the vastness of life, it's all overwhelming, and yet calming.
I understand your use of poetry and writing. I do the same. It is my method of unleashing my inner emotions and thoughts. I don't always completely understand them, but when they are there, they get written. Sometimes I don't even understand what I am really feeling until I write it down into a poem, and then it all makes much more sense. I hope what I write can express my way of thoughts and feelings to others who both do and don't see the world the same as I do.
Being alive is a magical thing. Life itself is magical, even in its seemingly meaninglessness. With all the mysteries there are and the vastness of life, it's all overwhelming, and yet calming.
Writing is my way of coming to terms with things, and whether I know it or not, words are the only thing that have the potential to make me feel so stupidly happy, and destroy everything there is of my soul too.
Whenever I explain things like this to people, I'm always called a "deep-thinker" and so on, but to me it only feels obvious. To me, what metaphors I attach to things I think about while living are just that -- they're things I place onto other things to understand the thing in question. It helps, it really does.
I've made so many little neologisms for myself in search of what is and what isn't "myself": "MindBleeding(s)," "valmentry," "Consciences" . . . all of those words I end up using on a daily basis, as shortcuts to understand what I've identified as part of me.
But it's because of my writing that I've even been able to become conscious of those things, or that I've been able to realize them for what they are.
. . .in a sense, it sometimes feels rather tragic, to be so self-aware that even words -- the first friend I've ever made -- want to choke me, they want to suffocate me as they congest there in my throat, never leaving. It was the beginning of this very year that I realized how . . . how afraid I was -- and still kind of am -- about a lot of things.
But speaking about what I really care about -- words, language, literature -- and what I feel like is myself is almost paralyzing. I felt that there wasn't a point, come this time last year; there wasn't, since I would have just stopped and not even bothered to say anything. . .
I am still kind of worried about telling other people what matters to me.
And I know that sounds kind of silly, but I'm a rather neurotic person when it comes to these things.
I get scared and I get so caught up in what I feel other people will think about me when I tell them about the various mirror fragments that I feel make up my psyche. Who I've come to call the Consciences . . . what I know as a MindBleeding, for examples.
. . .
It's all pretty funny for me to say that now, considering that I'm saying all of this to a person I've known for less than a day's time.
"Maybe I just haven't been around the right kind of people," I tell myself.
But I've met some pretty interesting people on this website, and I've noticed that here (on this little spot of the Internet) is quite possibly one of the only places where someone can reveal their eccentricities -- of any type, really -- and congregate here.
For instance, we're both writers.
We've been joined together by our shared interest in words and the abilities they have that we are able to foster.
I've discovered who you are from ed1loup and I've pretty much met everyone who I know here by accident. XD
I've been endlessly curious since I was a child, so I suppose that led me to this website in the first place.
It's quite a calming notion for me to step back and realize that I know the people I do, whether on or off the Internet. I have close friends who are not part of this website, I have friends who would stop talking to me if they knew I was part of this website and I have one incredibly close friend who perhaps understands me the best of anyone I've met off the Internet.
Meeting new people is something that would scare me half to death (and it still kinda does), but I understand that there's something interesting in certain people that makes me want to get to know them better, be it some quality I noticed or just something euphoric or inviting about their general personality.
Knowing other people -- and knowing that those people in question care about me as I do with them -- makes me feel alive. It's honestly something that make me rather conscious, grateful and happy, all at once and I love it. ^ ^
Whenever I explain things like this to people, I'm always called a "deep-thinker" and so on, but to me it only feels obvious. To me, what metaphors I attach to things I think about while living are just that -- they're things I place onto other things to understand the thing in question. It helps, it really does.
I've made so many little neologisms for myself in search of what is and what isn't "myself": "MindBleeding(s)," "valmentry," "Consciences" . . . all of those words I end up using on a daily basis, as shortcuts to understand what I've identified as part of me.
But it's because of my writing that I've even been able to become conscious of those things, or that I've been able to realize them for what they are.
. . .in a sense, it sometimes feels rather tragic, to be so self-aware that even words -- the first friend I've ever made -- want to choke me, they want to suffocate me as they congest there in my throat, never leaving. It was the beginning of this very year that I realized how . . . how afraid I was -- and still kind of am -- about a lot of things.
But speaking about what I really care about -- words, language, literature -- and what I feel like is myself is almost paralyzing. I felt that there wasn't a point, come this time last year; there wasn't, since I would have just stopped and not even bothered to say anything. . .
I am still kind of worried about telling other people what matters to me.
And I know that sounds kind of silly, but I'm a rather neurotic person when it comes to these things.
I get scared and I get so caught up in what I feel other people will think about me when I tell them about the various mirror fragments that I feel make up my psyche. Who I've come to call the Consciences . . . what I know as a MindBleeding, for examples.
. . .
It's all pretty funny for me to say that now, considering that I'm saying all of this to a person I've known for less than a day's time.
"Maybe I just haven't been around the right kind of people," I tell myself.
But I've met some pretty interesting people on this website, and I've noticed that here (on this little spot of the Internet) is quite possibly one of the only places where someone can reveal their eccentricities -- of any type, really -- and congregate here.
For instance, we're both writers.
We've been joined together by our shared interest in words and the abilities they have that we are able to foster.
I've discovered who you are from ed1loup and I've pretty much met everyone who I know here by accident. XD
I've been endlessly curious since I was a child, so I suppose that led me to this website in the first place.
It's quite a calming notion for me to step back and realize that I know the people I do, whether on or off the Internet. I have close friends who are not part of this website, I have friends who would stop talking to me if they knew I was part of this website and I have one incredibly close friend who perhaps understands me the best of anyone I've met off the Internet.
Meeting new people is something that would scare me half to death (and it still kinda does), but I understand that there's something interesting in certain people that makes me want to get to know them better, be it some quality I noticed or just something euphoric or inviting about their general personality.
Knowing other people -- and knowing that those people in question care about me as I do with them -- makes me feel alive. It's honestly something that make me rather conscious, grateful and happy, all at once and I love it. ^ ^
I get how you feel about words. They are powerful items. Growing up, they were about all I had. They have become my closest friend, but they also can be my worst enemy. I'm pretty neurotic, myself, so I feel you there, too. Lord knows how odd I am with how I feel about others and about myself. But, our eccentricities are what make us who we are. There is nothing to feel ashamed of there.
I've met some of the best and most important people to me over the internet, and I wouldn't be surprised if I continue to. I have my close friend in real life too, but it is hard to meet those who truly grasp you through non-internet means. Those friends who do truly understand you are the most amazing things in life. They make it so worth living. It is hard to make those friends, as I am horrible at conversation, but it is important to meet new people and continue on socializing with those who you enjoy the company of.
I've met some of the best and most important people to me over the internet, and I wouldn't be surprised if I continue to. I have my close friend in real life too, but it is hard to meet those who truly grasp you through non-internet means. Those friends who do truly understand you are the most amazing things in life. They make it so worth living. It is hard to make those friends, as I am horrible at conversation, but it is important to meet new people and continue on socializing with those who you enjoy the company of.
I noticed my name and I had to join the conversation. Especially since it is you two talking.
So, besides the fact that I do not believe that there is nothing after death, but I won't ramble about that because there is nothing to say since we know nothing about it, I do not think that we are so insignificant. Yes, we are extremely tiny is the grand speck of things, bit what makes us special and unique? We're alive. Not only alive, but we are conscious with emotions, dreams, hopes, fears. I believe that that differentiates us from the rest of the world and makes us special. Most things are inanimate or just micro-organism. Sure, we can debate over aliens, I believe in them, but until we can prove it, we are the only ones.
Writing was like an accident to me. I was bored and when I looked around how to change my page, I stumbled upon what I do and I did not see watcher, so I took what I could be good at:writer and started writing poems. The more I wrote, the more I projected my emotion and thoughts onto it until is because a for of expression.
Unlike you two, I could be considered normal, if a little on he nerdy side of things, but ever since I have discovered books, it changed me. It made me into the person I am. The quiet guy that no one notices, but gives useful advices every now and then that no one listens to because... Quiet guy that most people ignore...
I'll be back into the conversation soon, I just have to watch a movie with my parents. I'm being forced :p
So, besides the fact that I do not believe that there is nothing after death, but I won't ramble about that because there is nothing to say since we know nothing about it, I do not think that we are so insignificant. Yes, we are extremely tiny is the grand speck of things, bit what makes us special and unique? We're alive. Not only alive, but we are conscious with emotions, dreams, hopes, fears. I believe that that differentiates us from the rest of the world and makes us special. Most things are inanimate or just micro-organism. Sure, we can debate over aliens, I believe in them, but until we can prove it, we are the only ones.
Writing was like an accident to me. I was bored and when I looked around how to change my page, I stumbled upon what I do and I did not see watcher, so I took what I could be good at:writer and started writing poems. The more I wrote, the more I projected my emotion and thoughts onto it until is because a for of expression.
Unlike you two, I could be considered normal, if a little on he nerdy side of things, but ever since I have discovered books, it changed me. It made me into the person I am. The quiet guy that no one notices, but gives useful advices every now and then that no one listens to because... Quiet guy that most people ignore...
I'll be back into the conversation soon, I just have to watch a movie with my parents. I'm being forced :p
I don't think our consciousness makes us anymore important or significant than any other creature. We are simply developed in our own unique way. But, we all die and return to nothing.
I stumbled upon writing a long time ago. I always enjoyed writing things for class. After awhile, I decided to write for myself. And so I did! And it became an addictive, cathartic sort of hobby
I'm quite quiet, but even with my mouth shut, I'm loudly weird, hahaha. I just expel an energy of oddness. It is quite entertaining to me.
Hope you enjoy the movie!
I stumbled upon writing a long time ago. I always enjoyed writing things for class. After awhile, I decided to write for myself. And so I did! And it became an addictive, cathartic sort of hobby
I'm quite quiet, but even with my mouth shut, I'm loudly weird, hahaha. I just expel an energy of oddness. It is quite entertaining to me.
Hope you enjoy the movie!
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