Bruh
Bruh,
What is all this Lunacy,
Am I,
The only one,
Who finds it,
Ridiculous,
That,
We are taught,
To feel unloved,
If we don’t accomplish certain things,
As I think about this,
The paradigm of our culture,
Through no one’s fault in particular,
I feel,
Intensely angry,
There is a deep deep rage,
Within myself,
That augments,
As I think about this,
Trickery that we’ve been subjected too,
Trickery indeed,
Deception,
Mass illusion,
It’s not even worth despising,
Because no one is at fault,
There is nothing to direct my anger towards,
It’s just me,
Deceiving myself,
It’s kind of funny actually,
In a way,
It makes me laugh,
For,
The power ultimately to liberate myself,
Is in myself,
Don’t think about it too much,
But Peace,
Or Stillness,
Or the unquantifiable origination of the cosmos,
The Tao,
Whatever,
Whatever,
That which is,
Is in such close proximity,
In fact,
There is no distance separating us,
There is something of an artifical barrier,
And that is your identity,
Don’t listen to what I have to say,
Just sit still for a second,
Forget your self,
Or actually,
Look at yourself,
Careful,
What constitues your self,
This is an important question,
Is there a firm background,
Or,
A firm basis for the existence of this self,
Well,
What’s your answer?
I’m waiting,
I haven’t got an answer,
I don’t,
Nothing to say to you,
Though,
It seems the more I pay attention to this self,
The more it seems to be an elusive,
Almost transparent thing,
That has no density,
No clear definition,
It’s a vague outline of something,
So,
Well,
What is there,
If not for my self,
Well,
See it,
Go in,
Look into,
Yourself,
Side note: Today I finished re-reading Murakami’s The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle. Murakami is like a lost friend, whom I lost a long time ago. The discovery of his writing was almost frighteningly satisfying, as though indeed, his vernacular, his story-telling, the themes expressed in his work, we’re all so familiar, his perspective, the world-view which is manifested in his fictional worlds, and mainly through the journey’s of his characters was eerily parallel to mine and honestly helped me simply come to a greater appreciation of my own limited human condition. If a book has this kind of effect, it’s magical, no doubt about it for me, his writing is purely magic, and it cannot be anything else, it’s way to… real, palpable and inwardly stirring. This is my short, but hopefully touching account of my experience, I simply wished to convey the magic of words, Haruki Murakami has a gift, no doubt about it through my eyes, it’s a gift of touching you somewhere, as though pointing a finger to a hidden, covered part of you, alluring you to look into this and see what shall be found. It’s a wonderful discovery I must say, there is a message of freedom and meaning to be found in his stories finally.
