Random Thoughts | Absurdia.Net

May 2, 2010

A word about misanthropy

What you hate is what you are. Perhaps even more than what you love. Any kind of feeling of tenderness can be mistaken for love without rationalization. Hate and displeasure are actual. They cannot be mistaken. So if I say, and I’m quite certain I can affirm it by now, that I dislike people and that my dislike most of the time borders hatred, I cannot be told it’s only the spur of the moment. I cannot be treated like I’m a psychotic monster. I’ve been running away from certain sort of people, from a precise typology of human kind. Yet I’m being reminded for I don’t know what reasons I shouldn’t be so sure of my feelings, that these feelings are not certainties. Well, I do like some very selected individuals. It’s not an elitist reasoning that comes into account when I sense I do not dislike somebody, that I even like this somebody. It’s a very instictive feel, and it’s not necessarily possible to explain with a few words what are the elements that are part of the “I like” equation. Dislike on the other hand is both instinctive and rational. I can feel a strong and uncontrollable displeasure in the presence of some person, but most of the times I can clearly point out the sources of my dislike. I do not know why I should be apologetic, why I should find replies coated in sugar when I’m forced to reveal myself and admit, in part or entirely, that I’m not willing to deal with people I don’t like. What do they expect? I try to be empathic and civil, but I can only be as long as I’m not supposed to associate, to mingle with them. Is it so hard to get? I’m not that upset when it happens to me as well. I’m aware I’m not completely peculiar about this sentiment. This world proves more and more narrow everyday.

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March 21, 2010

It feels good to be here

A place for little things, a place where time has its own times and space its own spaces. Free from hypertrophies, the swelling illnesses of the self-indulgent egos. Free from the prejudiced denials. Distress and foreboding aren’t roaming the streets with indecent voraciousness. Possibilities outgrowing their shell. But it’s still too early to confidently surrender to this encouraging and tender benevolence.

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January 23, 2010

Packing

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It’s so true: owning things means just trouble. One never realizes how much junk one owns until it’s time to move and to sort it out. Packing can be unnerving and deciding what’s going into a box and what’s going to feed the trashbin isn’t easy. Especially when you’re the sort of person who can’t really throw away anything.
I’ve never really got rid of things, so now I find the process of condemning anything that’s been with me for years and years to eternal oblivion almost unbearable. It’s like betrayal.
Twenty boxes of books only have been piled in the living room. There are still enough books around – my books, not counting my parents’ – to fill quite a few. But all the books I couldn’t give away with bookmooch are not to be thrown away. Some really bad comic book maybe, but no more than that. With music is another story. Because I have so many crap albums I’d gladly throw away or destroy. If only… if only it didn’t seem wrong. It seems immoral, but I don’t really know why. But the real tragedy is with clothes. What the hell… I haven’t thrown away anything in the last ten years and though now I should be able to figure out the whole thing simply getting rid of older stuff, I just can’t. Clothes that may look like rags to others still look like they have a lot of life in them to me. Also, I’m really fond of some item that has a hole here or a strange stain or a cigarette mark there.
Is there a term to describe this sort of attitude? I mean, things are only things, you can’t really be fond of them to this point. To the point of going bonkers over this sort of question: “should I throw away? shouldn’t I? maybe I’ll keep it, maybe not… it’s wrong, it’s not so wrong” etc., going on for hours and hours. It must be a clinical condition with its proper description for it. But I’m not interested in knowing it, really. You learn one definition and start thinking it has to work like that. Like with medical encyclopaedias: you start reading each definition and you end being completely sure you’re having at least sixty percent of the conditions you’ve been reading about.

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December 17, 2009

Absent homes

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It’s weird to wake up everyday in a place where you don’t feel safe, at ease. In a place where your relations are not only strangers but enemies. Where you touch things that you should be owning and you perceive them as sly unknowns.
There was a time when home was a word with a meaning, even in my own vocabulary. When the word home aroused all sorts of familiar feelings, accompanied by reassuring images. Not that even in those days the feeling was frequent. But at least I could tell how it was to connect the idea with a factuality.
What’s home? I mean, really? I don’t see how some place has to be home just because you don’t know any better. Even with all the frustrations and disappointments. How can you constantly be disappointed in a place and still be able to call it home? Apparently it doesn’t take much for people to be contented, otherwise I wouldn’t know how to explain this constant putting up with exasperation. And how would you call home a place where your dignity, if you have some, is denied in every possible way? Getting mad for ten minutes every now and then isn’t enough to replace the dignity you keep on losing. Abulia and apathy aren’t necessarily arms in the hand of the strongest. They’re vicious maladies that gnaw at your brilliance, at your will to be and do.
A lot of talk I hear from everybody. They all have their neatly folded opinions about everything, even about what they do not know. If they do not have one, they can make some up or steal it from a TV show’s host or a magazine for bored housewives. But I reckon in their depths, where something valuable should be, where authentic home should be, there is nothing but this dull contentment, so they can go on another day.

And yes, I am truly as simplistic as a kid in my notions. That must be why I do not update often, ha!

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November 4, 2009

Untitled

Around people I feel nauseous, because I see through their sordid intentions, their excuses, their unwillingness. All of us, liars. All of us, deceivers. Looking for the quickest path to shut ourselves in self-absorption. Grinning all the way through the day, rolling the eyes to conceal aversion. Requesting assistance but refusing humane barters. I don’t trust any of this. I’m too much into it to not know how it works. Every step forward you get pushed backward, isn’t it how it is? Some are a little too good at waving their arms, at overindulging, that’s why they seem to progress so, while the rest of us, the inepts, keep on regressing day in day out.

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August 22, 2009

Yes and no

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I can’t concentrate, but apart from that things seem to be in a rather stagnant state. Some questions occasionally get better, some others the opposite. Things break easily and need replacement. People do the same, in a more tragic manner most of the times. They ask for attention, sometimes imperatively. But it’s nothing worth noting anyway.
When you meet somebody you know in the street you’re supposed to greet them, but this is a custom that’s falling into disuse more and more. The others of my generation and I just pretend we don’t know each others, we ignore our reciprocal presence. Then we’re supposed to acknowledge ourselves once again in critical times. I’m digressing again.
I really do not know what I should be writing about. Everybody seem to have so much to say. I just want to retreat in my own space, wherever it is.

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Category: Random Thoughts