"This is my..."
It seems no one can help me now. I'm in too deep -- there's no way out. This time I have really led myself astray.
It seems no one can help me now. I'm in too deep -- there's no way out. This time I have really led myself astray.
It seems no one can help me now. I'm in too deep -- there's NO way OUT. This time I have really led myself astray.
It seems no one can help me now. I'm in too deep -- there's no way out. This time I have really led myself astray.
It's only to be understood that this is what afflicts the minds most susceptible to romantic ideals.
It's only to be understood that existence, admittedly a wretchedly confusing idea, is absolutely intolerable to those individuals imbued with more than a cursory knowledge of that which permeates their environment.
"...[M]an enters a totally meaningless world, makes it habitable through his consciousness, confers meaning on it through his free choice, and is overawed by the dreadful freedom which makes him responsible for his situation and his life."
"To suffer and to be are one and the same...[.]"
If suffering constitutes being, and being constitutes the conscious application of man to a collection of experiences (essentially and habitually termed "life"), then what becomes of those experiences -- those splintery bits of "life" -- that are not related to suffering?
What of the times I spend, yielding myself both spiritually and bodily, in the arms of someone who cares for me beyond the self-imposed limits of comprehension? Is that not "life?" And if it is, why am I not inundated by more of these experiences? I think that in order to have a "life" of any determinable span, a wealth of weekend-length situations unrelated to both suffering and pain should be at my disposal.
I am finally ready to admit that I need someone other than myself. Though at times ashamed to announce this silently, I have finally concluded that this needing is perfectly sane, perfectly rational, perfectly normal. I have finally come to understand what so many others have already figured out -- I need someone. And, rest assured, it feels good to know that someone else needs me, too.
However, this needing doesn't always translate into understanding. I am lost for words, sometimes, in relation to what I'm feeling -- and often it seems like I'm simply re-wording emotions and ideas that I've stated a thousand times already. Tonight I was lost for words while on the phone, and so I covered the mouthpiece while sobbing through clenched teeth. Isn't that a particularly pathetic image? When voices break and falter -- when unshed tears well at the surface and unsaid feelings roil beneath the skin -- that, and that alone, seems the most delicate of moments. I'll not say how this night's moment was handled, because I'm not entirely sure myself; I'm left wondering if I'll be able to sleep tonight, if I made that hands' host angry, if I said too much on the same tired topic, perhaps...but I'll not say how it went. I can't be sure.
"And I'd give it all away just to have somewhere to go to -- give it all away to have someone to come home to."
I feel rather forlorn. Lost. Hurt. Snow-covered -- bleak like an empty field caught fast in winter's grip. Now contemplating, I don't feel understood at all. I feel bottled up and pushed aside -- but such is the lot of those imbued with romantic ideals, you know.
It seems no one can help me now. I'm in too deep -- there's no way out. This time I have really led myself astray.
It seems no one can help me now. I'm in too deep -- there's NO way OUT. This time I have really led myself astray.
It seems no one can help me now. I'm in too deep -- there's no way out. This time I have really led myself astray.
It's only to be understood that this is what afflicts the minds most susceptible to romantic ideals.
It's only to be understood that existence, admittedly a wretchedly confusing idea, is absolutely intolerable to those individuals imbued with more than a cursory knowledge of that which permeates their environment.
"...[M]an enters a totally meaningless world, makes it habitable through his consciousness, confers meaning on it through his free choice, and is overawed by the dreadful freedom which makes him responsible for his situation and his life."
"To suffer and to be are one and the same...[.]"
If suffering constitutes being, and being constitutes the conscious application of man to a collection of experiences (essentially and habitually termed "life"), then what becomes of those experiences -- those splintery bits of "life" -- that are not related to suffering?
What of the times I spend, yielding myself both spiritually and bodily, in the arms of someone who cares for me beyond the self-imposed limits of comprehension? Is that not "life?" And if it is, why am I not inundated by more of these experiences? I think that in order to have a "life" of any determinable span, a wealth of weekend-length situations unrelated to both suffering and pain should be at my disposal.
I am finally ready to admit that I need someone other than myself. Though at times ashamed to announce this silently, I have finally concluded that this needing is perfectly sane, perfectly rational, perfectly normal. I have finally come to understand what so many others have already figured out -- I need someone. And, rest assured, it feels good to know that someone else needs me, too.
However, this needing doesn't always translate into understanding. I am lost for words, sometimes, in relation to what I'm feeling -- and often it seems like I'm simply re-wording emotions and ideas that I've stated a thousand times already. Tonight I was lost for words while on the phone, and so I covered the mouthpiece while sobbing through clenched teeth. Isn't that a particularly pathetic image? When voices break and falter -- when unshed tears well at the surface and unsaid feelings roil beneath the skin -- that, and that alone, seems the most delicate of moments. I'll not say how this night's moment was handled, because I'm not entirely sure myself; I'm left wondering if I'll be able to sleep tonight, if I made that hands' host angry, if I said too much on the same tired topic, perhaps...but I'll not say how it went. I can't be sure.
"And I'd give it all away just to have somewhere to go to -- give it all away to have someone to come home to."
I feel rather forlorn. Lost. Hurt. Snow-covered -- bleak like an empty field caught fast in winter's grip. Now contemplating, I don't feel understood at all. I feel bottled up and pushed aside -- but such is the lot of those imbued with romantic ideals, you know.
posted by Ophelia at 1:05 AM
4 Comments:
These words I hear, I understand in some fashon, for I have lived them too.
Seen myself, repeat myself
Seen myself, repeat myself
But reputation is not a bad thing. If the same idea is said 600 different ways each and everyone has its own value.
“An unexamined life is a life wasted.”
We romantics…we human beings…I think we live to be understood. To show and to know someone outside our head feels the things we feel.
If nothing else, know that those who care for you, in our own 600 fold ways, are there, with arms and eyes and ears and heart wide open.
Matt
She says she's no good with words, but I'm worse.. barely stuttered out "A joke of a romantic" or stuck to my tongue, weighed down with words too over-dramatic. Tonight it's "it can't get much worse" Vs. "no one should ever feel like.." I'm two quarters and a heart down, and I don't want to forget how your voice sounds. These words are all I have so I'll write them, so you need them just to get by..
http://www.taoism.net/sanctuary/books/vintaste.htm
"According to Lao-tse, the more man interfered with the natural balance produced and governed by the universal laws, the further away the harmony retreated into the distance. The more forcing, the more trouble. Whether heavy or light, wet or dry, fast or slow, everything had its own nature already within it, which could not be violated without causing difficulties. When abstract and arbitrary rules were imposed from the outside, struggle was inevitable. Only then did life become sour.
To Lao-tse, the world was not a setter of traps but a teacher of valuable lessons. Its lessons needed to be learned, just as its laws needed to be followed; then all would go well. Rather than turn away from "the world of dust," Lao-tse advised others to "join the dust of the world." What he saw operating behind everything in heaven and earth he called Tao (DAO), "the Way."
In the painting, why is Lao-tse smiling? After all, that vinegar that represents life must certainly have an unpleasant taste, as the expressions on the faces of the other two men indicate. But, through working in harmony with life's circumstances, Taoist understanding changes what others may perceive as negative into something positive. From the Taoist point of view, sourness and bitterness come from the interfering and unappreciative mind. Life itself, when understood and utilized for what it is, is sweet. That is the message of The Vinegar Tasters."
Stop forcing. Join the dust of the world. Sit back and laugh. When the vinegar sticks in your throat, stop for a second. It will be impossible not to smile at the ridiculousness of it all.
This rollercoaster's the one I stood in line for/ Hands in the air, these ups and downs here are paid for.
In the end we're just dust. But this dust is goddamn beautiful. Don't misinterpret the existentialists... the smart ones were laughing too.
I feel I must add to my already lengthy comment. You discussed the futility of the lot we are given in life. I refer you to Camus' essay on the myth of Sisyphus
( http://stripe.colorado.edu/~morristo/sisyphus.html )
Though doomed to an eternity of futile labor, Sisyphus has his victory in that brief moment of joy at the crest of the hill. Yes, his existence is absurd. Yes it can be awful. But it can also contain happiness. He is aware of his suffering, and through acknowledgement, he rises above it. He conquers it. He smiles on his way back down...
"He too concludes that all is well. This universe henceforth without a master seems to him neither sterile nor futile. Each atom of that stone, each mineral flake of that night filled mountain, in itself forms a world. The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy."
So push your stone. I'll be pushing mine. When we meet at the top, I'll kiss you, and we can smile as we watch them roll back down, knowing we'll soon be pushing again. Forever masterless, and beautifully absurd.
There is no sun without shadow, and it is essential to know the night.
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