I keep having trouble with coming to terms with the fact that I am a human. That I am a person entitled to being a person. The ugly and the pretty, it's all me. Too willing to dissect and forego experiencing. Too tired of my mediocre thoughts and too hell-bent on bringing my soul to life.
Listen, I'm not writing a monologue. I'm being a person. Unscripted and unplanned. I want to spend Sunday nights reading Nietzche and I want to be sleep-deprived on Monday mornings.
My thoughts have always disgusted me for how mediocre they are and today is nothing special. We hate the things we understand too deeply, there is no hatred without understanding. I think that's where the cliche of 'thin line between love and hate' comes from.
I have experimented with satire, I have experimented with poetry, I have experimented with perspective writing, and I have experimented with articles. I hate writing. I hate the pressure that I put myself under in that moment because it is so beyond me to be a writer. But perhaps that's why someday I will be a writer because I am beginning to understand the burden you get to carry. It's an absolute honor to carry that burden. You get to claim that there is poetry in you worthy of being written.
I am so interested in reading about human beings. I want to know how you are accepting the art of being. There's something so beautiful about a person bowing his head and accepting the laws that govern the universe (note: universe is not the same as the world, think of sets and subsets where the universe is the set and the world is the subset. the subset must adhere to all the qualities of the universe but the universe is free to be more).
Reflecting on this for the next few hours: "Maybe there's a God above..." (x)
No comments:
Post a Comment