It's been a long time since I've felt miserable.
So long that the feeling comes close to being so familiar that I would enjoy being miserable for the time being.
A sudden urge to shed tears comes along.
It is emotional. I try to rationalise this primordial act.
Why would I do so? For whom or what would I cry for?
In so doing, I distance myself further away from the origin of this apparent sadness.
What lies in the end is perhaps a faint footprint of someone or something that had once set foot on an arid desert sand-scape. A gentle gust of wind quickly erases the superficial mark with a thin glaze of silica as the distant memory slowly settles over time...
Perhaps such dreamy imageries might have been the result of a recent reading of Mirage by Nina Burleigh - about Napoleon's expedition to Egypt along with the often uncredited work of his accompanying savants. The choice of the illusional phenomena common to the desert seems to be prime due to the wrongfully ideal dreamscape of a harem utopia of oriental wonders harboured by the more adventurous French rigour. It is almost uncanny that I speak of times and journal as a lonesome individual navigating an unchartered course of hardships and deprivations to come - a blend of observation, imaginative fantasies and cynicism.
Can you normal?
Is it possible to actually be normal?
You, among most people should appreciate better the luxuries of staying so.
But does that give you the right?
Or is it all just the usual illusion - the projection of meaning and direction as you are surrounded by never ending mounds of eternal sand, where water or anything close to salvation is never to be.
Well at least the latest build of Safari 4 resolves the cookies problem when logging in to blogger - an erroneous misery that used to stack on to the mental taxation of post typing through sheer annoyance.
It is uncanny how the current musical favourite of me takes on a French orientation thru a collaboration of Nâdiya with Enrique Iglesias in Tired of Being Sorry (Laisse le destin l'emporter).
There is no meaning in life.
Meaning is just a projection made up by humans to make up for this apparent void.
Dignity, glory, fame - bullshyt.
These are just masks, worn and used to conceal and mask the pathetic existence of humans.
Humans.
A pathetic existence.
Life.
A game, lived by your own rules for the sake of fun and gratifications.
Life is nasty. Life is brutish.
Death is your salvation. Alternatives include solace in logic or a leap of faith.
(i.e. consolations of philosophy & religion respectively)
Life is too short to be taken seriously.
What is the point of a game if you don't take it seriously?
A meaningless pathetic existence.
Humans.
2 years or
720 days or
1051200 minutes or
63072000 seconds.
What happened then, I tried not to remember.
Eventually I couldn't remember.
Now I have no idea what just happened in all that time past.
A certain sadness,
A certain emptiness.
No, it could have been a tug at a heartstring I swear.
It doesn't feel like I have a heart anymore.
After yesterday's movie at the cinema, I am reminded of the scene of the latest sequel of Terminator, where Marcus Wright was rudely allowed a view of his cyborg body while thinking he was human all this time.
Though for him it was 15 years or rather,
473040000 seconds.
Doodling on unwanted paper turned ironic as the color markers on hand ran out of ink not long after calibration.
Forget about that basket of fruits.