Multitudes of Hue

12.2.2016 – 11:57

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You are a blasting Universe in which the Nyctophobic can’t see.

Reasons To Be Alive

Why do we have to look for something that’s already there? Why do we have to be so lost.. and so broken when we can just let it be, and live life, and that’s it.

It’s 12:15am right now, 20th of January, Sunday. In the middle of the night. Or, is it… Morning? Okay, whatever.

Reasons to be alive. Wow. What a very bold, strong and brave title for me, if I can say so myself. Okay. How, and what had ever come to my mind for me to even write that shit? I have no idea. It just… came. Maybe while brushing my teeth, earlier. So officially, this is gonna be.. I repeat, this is gonna be my first ever post for this year 2019. Officially. Gotta write something sensible… I thought. You came to here thinking I write something that makes sense but I don’t, and you’re wrong. If you read till the end, you’ll know that I don’t.

I do not write something that makes sense. I write my thoughts down, in the hope that somehow it will, but it doesn’t. It never did.

The reason why that very thought had come to my mind is maybe because I’ve been writing… And while writing, I’ve read so much about life, life… The meaning of life, and so so. It says “why do you have to search for the meaning of life, when the very meaning of it is just that: to be alive. So obvious and so simple.” Something like that… And I’ve figured, yeah. Why do we, fools, always have to complicate such simple things? Why do we have to look for something that’s already there? Why do we have to be so lost.. and so broken when we can just let it be, and live life, and that’s it. But it always sounds easier said than done, I suppose. I know the point of life is to live. But why do we search so eagerly? Why do we need the meaning? Maybe, just maybe… we are still so lost that we still don’t know why. Or at least, I can use the word I for this, instead of saying we. But you know, I realized… While brushing my teeth back there, and while staring into darkness, I realized that maybe the point of life is really just that. To live. To wake up in the morning and sleep again at night. Practically. Because you’ll die anyway. You die, regardless. You live and then you die. That is life. That’s the meaning of life. In the end, you throw it all out in the abyss because nothing’s gonna be yours in the end. Everything’s ought to turn into nothing. In the big, black nothing.

But that, that particular random moment… I realized, that maybe life means the kittens waiting to be fed by you, waiting for you to feed them their milk because some people are just plain asshole who decided to throw them out on the street when they are still helpless little babies and you are lucky enough to adopt them, and take care of them. Maybe it means the round, big full moon outside, waiting to be seen. Maybe it’s about the pile of unread books you still haven’t gotten the time to read. Maybe it’s the strawberry salt scrub in the bathroom waiting to be used up. Or some random people waiting to hear a word from you again. Or maybe even just the the bed. Simply waiting for you to lie down again, for the night being. I realized that maybe life is just that. To simply exist. To merely exist. That we don’t necessarily have to find so much meaning; to dig so much deeper to get there. Because we’re already there. We’re alive, and we exist. There is not much to life. There’s not much to life apart from breathing.

It’s been the 20th day of the year. Already. And I can’t remember writing something much of a content… or let alone, a bit of a sense back in 2018. Haven’t written much. All I did was post all the goddamn old notes I had, from about three years back. Damn. I’m getting left behind and couldn’t keep up with the time. Couldn’t take account on chronology. A year went by so goddamn fast, and yet nothing ever happens. But it’s always been like that… It always felt like that. I’d think, almost nothing had ever happened, but really, so much have happened. In fact, many things had happened. It’s just that, when we say, and when we look back at the year that had passed by, maybe it was a week or two, that we look back to; Just about what we remember last. We don’t really look back from the start. But as I lay here, now… I realized… I realized, time is still the same. Almost hypnotic. Will surprise you by the start of the year… Smack you straight onto the face and say goodbye by the end of it just like that. As if nothing happened. As if nothing ever mattered. One day, it’s the first day of January, the next thing you know it’s almost gone, and it’s Christmas already. Wow. Time has gone by like this. So long and so quick…

It feels weird. Writing along… And just whatever comes to mind, I type it down. Basically everything here is just random. And pretty much spontaneous. I don’t really hold onto things so much that’s why I let the spontaneous things happen on their own. Tbh, I have this… This blog of mine, which all I ever do was to post something out of date, which is pretty much the very same reason why I started this. I created a blog, just so I have somewhere to put my notes on to. All my blabbering… My whining on how shitty life can be. Nothing more. I created this just so I have somewhere to put up all the nonsense. All my nonsensical random thoughts… But then things change, you know. Some random people had been able to read this, and are able to read even my previous blog posts… And I still cannot call myself a blogger. I post… Old notes, okay. And I cannot call myself a blogger. But… it feels strange, in a way. Writing this, this particular one. I’m finally talking as myself, referring to me, as “me” not writing as, or being you, or I. Err… Confusing? Alright, I know. All along, in the previous years back, all I do was post in a sequence.. of events, phenomenon. Of random theories and random conclusions. Random musings.. and all that. Just… typical me, being me. I guess.

But… looking back, from last year. I was able to… I think I’d been able to do stuff. Was able to meet people again after years of not seeing each other. Was able to walk with them in those months, and was able to be part of making memories together. Was able to witness happiness in them… Through their laughs, and through their eyes. Had been able to have wise talks, and exchange good conversations with just about a few amazing people. I was able to see it all. Was able to feel the friggin’ summer heat in the earlier months of the year. Also been able to be away from home for like, five long months. And, had also been able to meet people. Meet friends, actually. Hmm… Online, I guess? I was able to meet new people before the year ended inevitably. And reading back to it now, I realized there are a lot of things I’ve missed. Simple little things that if only I’ve read well, I would never have misunderstood… But as I say, I’m a freaking klutz and I always seem to miss something. Oh, I remember there’s this someone who asked me something, and when I answered it, said: “why answering it so dumb?” but I’ve always been dumb, btw. I still am, actually. But that particular moment… was strange. Strange because I do not know if I would laugh or get insulted. So I got stuck with both. But I had to ask myself, “dumb, because he thinks I did not answer it seriously, or dumb because I really just answered it dumbly, and I just haven’t realized it yet?” And so I asked him. And he said, “Because when I ask people this, they answer, this and that” And I thought, Ah… So he got a quite different answer this time, maybe even for the first time? Or maybe he expected me to answer the same damn scripted answer just like what he always got? Either way, I don’t have the answer because I did not ask him after that. Like, would I consider it good? Or bad? I never figured.

It’s funny tho, how someone can say you are dumb or someone who can think you are amazing, or someone else says you are smart. I mean, I don’t know but I just find it somewhat.. funny. These… these versions of myself they have made up in their minds. My point is, I do not care; I couldn’t care less what they think of me, what they have inside their minds the way they made me up… But it’s actually also fun, too, hearing it from them sometimes. (I realized that) You realize there are so many versions of you out there. I mean, I don’t know… And I still don’t. How someone would say I’m “interesting” and I’m meant to ask them, “interesting… you mean?” And while realizing that’s just being dumb again, I’ll think. Think for myself. Interesting is something that is worth knowing. And interesting and worth knowing for me is, the Voynich Manuscript. The Lines in Nazca. The existence of aliens. History. The mysteries behind it. Stuff like that… You know. And then I’ll look through myself, and ask, “am I interesting enough?” And the answer is no. And that brings me back to why I had to ask them in the first place. ‘Cause I don’t think I am, why would you? Why waste your time on me? I mean for me, I choose carefully where, how and whom to spend my time with. I understood the merit of time, so better spend it into learning, and searching for something worth knowing. (If not conversing with people worth talking to) and that, for me, is interesting. As for them, for people, I don’t know how they come up with the idea of their “interesting” when they say that. How they make up their mind and decide something is actually, interesting. But then again, Life, — a matter of perception so it’s up to me, and also up to them.

But still. When people talk about something, I do not know what really, is this “something” they’re talking about. I mean, it could be anything… But I’m just not the type of person to do the guessing. Like, “I think we have something, do you think/feel the same thing?” That something I do not know about. I mean, is it because of the things I’ve said? Things I did? Things I didn’t? Were you surprised? I mean, I could say the same things to others, those things I said to you. Please don’t be mistaken. But that’s just gonna be either rude, or just another dumb answer. (I know, I know. We both do not know where this fucking messy blog is heading but I’ll keep going anyway) And I, myself, also find it amazing when someone calls me “amazing” like, really? Me? Amazing? How so? I mean, dude. You don’t know me, you don’t see me, how do you just made up your mind to that conclusion? Except, sometimes I’m just not that interested to know either (also except on the very rare moments that I do. I give a small damn to ask) like, how someone can come up and appear to you saying “this is the first message I ever sent to someone” I mean, what does it even mean? To have someone’s first ever text appear on your chatbox? What does it take for someone… to decide to message someone, or to decide to tell them that, or is it even a big deal at all? (Now I’m finding this interesting, huh nice) or for someone, asking “are you a cat person or a dog person?” I mean, is it really that important? How did you come up with that so randomly? But.. Looking back I realized, it was maybe just their way of approaching because they do not know how to say Hi, and I understood. I understood now. How someone’s comment made sense now than the first time I’ve read it and mistaken it only because I actually misunderstood it. Or how my mistakes, and how I mistakenly read something can actually help someone a little. (I want to remember those… remember those small moments of happiness even in just a fleeting glimpses of time) I don’t understand how someone can get intimidated by the way I write when he, himself is a poet? And I am nothing; I’m not even a writer to begin with. I write, yes. But that doesn’t mean I write good stuff like a real writer does. Like how someone can say you’re cute, without even seeing you and all you ever did was have a conversation online. How someone can say you’re a good and amazing person because you came back while that’s really the right thing to do that time? How someone can say that you’re finally getting better at writing when that particular one wasn’t even what you consider one of the best. How someone, can say that you sorta do magic and you always write something meaningful when most of time all I do was fool around? How can someone, some random someone would actually listen to the songs he said I “suggested” just because of my random blabbing of the songs on some random comment section and he’d actually thank me for it? I mean, how randomly polite someone can be… And what it took for him, to search a word in your language? Or… what does it take for someone to think of random “who” random crazy, eccentric person to think that he screwed up somewhere that I had to leave. When really, it’s just me being me. How can someone appear like they left because you left? Because you somewhat left them broken? I mean, how? How can someone be attached to you, without you being near them? How can someone find you a “joyful soul” or a “depressed” one? I mean how, what’s their basis? How someone could ask me, “don’t you have hope in life?” I mean, what triggers them, to ask such? And how someone can ask me about life… And how all I can think about is death. Because it’s just that, — death. When I think about life, I’ll think the end of it and there’s death. I can think nothing but death. When will you die, where, how quick or how long and… How awful it will be. You could think I’m pessimist, but really. I’m merely just a realist. But it’s not death that gives me anxieties; it’s the state of being alive. Not knowing what will happen next… And I don’t know how much it takes for people to actually like or dislike you; or what it takes for people to give their number to someone who asked randomly just like that, or does it really have to be a big deal? or how could you impact someone’s life so randomly in a snap. What does it take for them? Is it because I can’t feel anymore… I’ve been so numb that I no longer find anything to be relatable? Maybe… Maybe yes. As I’ve said before, they thought they’re talking to me but they’re actually talking to the dead; to a ghost. They’d think they’re talking to me but they’re actually talking to a corpse. Or maybe no, because it’s just me. It’s only me, being me. And this is me. I’m like that not because I’m lost or anything… But because it’s just the way I really am. Always numb, always neglectful, always oblivious, always dumb. And this is the thing I know. I only know how to be the way I am, and I can never know theirs. I will never be them.

I used to think… And used to absorb, and carry it within my heart, and probably mind, what Whitman once said: “I never ask the wounded man, I, myself, become the wounded man” but it is only now, at this moment, while writing this that I realized… John Green was right. I mean, I always know he’s also right; but not just as much as Whitman is… But yeah. I can never know these things. Of what people have in their minds. What come into their minds, what made them think such; what made them decide and what it took for them to decide or to do such. It’s 2:29 am now and in the end, I can only conclude that, and I can only agree that… Yes.

I must ask the wounded man, because I cannot become the wounded man. The only wounded man I can be is me.

This made sense to me, I hope it did to you.

These… Maybe these are my reasons to be alive. I figured, I have a couple of reasons to live. Just some good, wise conversation with someone. A really good book. Hot chocolate on some cold weather days… A very cool documentary to watch in the midnight. A clear sight of the stars. Finding some breathing and living souls; finding some random kindred spirits spontaneously. Fresh bedsheets and pillowcases and good music to sleep at night. These… are what I live for. These are my reasons to be alive, for now.

Fatal Malady

..it has always been what life meant; To be defeated once and for all and to start all over again.– Either you’d fly into stardust or burn into ashes.

Nov. 11, 2016 • 4:29pm

We thought that we were free of plagues when we see our skins clear. When we are really, deeply blighted and corrupted inside. We are so afflicted from within… We aren’t simply wounded; we are profoundly critical. We are so very ill, so sick and so frail that even just one clasp of a hand or one look in the eye might submerge our consciousness into the depth of indifference. Either that, or it’ll make our soul shatter into fragments that we won’t be able to collect. But we can never be what we once were; not even close. And we continue leaving our old selves behind not because of a choice but because of a demand. Such a demanding necessity of a situation that what has been of our lives. I figured, it has always been what Life meant; To be defeated once and for all and to start all over again. Either you’d fly into stardust or burn into ashes. But we can never cease this malady; nor flee this affliction… At the end of the day, we would always choose to just curl ourselves up into a ball while our insides were crumbling into shambles. Stoically enduring everything while a single tear says it all. But it is when someone finally looks into your eyes; through those cracked and fragmented, critical part of yours… that you will find out whether or not you would break down into pieces or you would feel whole, once again. The moment where, you do not know whether you’ll shatter and fall apart all over again.. Disintegrate and collapse into dust… And scatter. Or, you’d finally feel complete.. and found, at last.– No longer lost.

But perhaps it was both fundamentally, a virtual and humane idea to be in one’s mind in the first place.

Downside or a Perk?

I just can’t seem to stop living because I’m strong. — so Strong so hard to die.

And I’m not even a cactus to begin with. Even cactus needs to be treated properly; it needs to be taken care of. And I’m also not even a wildflower. A wildflower is still a flower, no matter how wild. And a flower is always beautiful. No matter what it is.

But I’m like a weed. A grass of weed. Just leave me there and I’ll grow on my own. You can always try to cut me down,– but I’ll persist anyway. I always will. I live. I exist, no matter what. Even when I don’t want to. I just can’t seem to cease living because I’m too strong. –Strong. Too damn strong.

So strong so hard to die.

Life in Irony

Life is strange. You remember what you badly want to forget and forget what’s meant to be remembered…

Oct. 15, 2018

Life is strange. You remember what you badly want to forget and forget what’s meant to be remembered. You always keep what you mean, and say what you don’t instead. We fill our lives with all the nonsense… all the meaningless things. Even if we meant well, we cannot do it.– nor say it. I wonder what hinders us,– what’s keeping us from doing what we really want to do, and what we really want to say.

But such is Life, and such is Irony.

Into The Wind

“Everything that’s broke — leave it to the breeze. Let the ashes fall… Forget about me.”

Feb. 28, 2017 • 12:05am

And then everything is constantly changing… Suddenly, everything is slowly drifting away; gradually. We cannot brace them, tie them, or keep them as ours. We can always cry and complain, but none of these will ever make them return back to the way they used to be. Because this time, whether or not it’s what we really choose… we only have one choice:

To let them go, and let them be.

Masterpiece

I write not because I want to write about something… I write because there is something to write about.

Feb.28, 2017 • 12:26am

The pain never goes away; not really. It remains with us forever. But what we have to learn is that we can allow it to blossom into something beautiful– like a work of art. Into something that conforms; something that resonates. Something that will reach out to others and make them feel understood…–to help make them feel that they’re certainly not alone. That pain can also build a connection. We don’t always have to force ourselves to let it go because it doesn’t always work that way, –when the scars were already there. We can only accept it. Accept that these things happen. We cannot know happiness if we hadn’t known pain. And we have, but only one way to ease the pain and live with it: To use it.

We have to use it.