turns out to not know me.
but it's ok.
at least I think it is.
there is always a knowledge that it won't happen.
to know me will be to invite a giant monster.
to know me will be to hate and love the world.
and I think it's pathetic to believe that no one understands me. but truly it is the case.
and I can't express myself well.
i love myself and i hate myself.
but the Lord knows me.
"it is natural for the mind to believe, and for the will to love; so that, for want of true objects, they must attach themselves to false"
Pascal
Pascal
I always feel that the dead know me better than people around me. Maybe it is because I read them in a certain way, such that they make perfect sense to me. Or maybe it is just that we thought of the same dilemma of living (and dying). Or maybe there is a same Author.
I feel, as if a hand is grabbing me, and wipes the tear I shed unknowingly when I read words that touch me.
I hear, as if a loud laughter echoes the room, when I read the words of mockery (of humanity). It is me, laughing with them.
I see, as if I am in a dark room, and I am blind, wandering in stationary wilderness. But there, out of a page, there is my long lost companion, waiting for me to share a candle.
Reading and writing has that immense sensation of being watched and feeling as if someone is guiding your fingers and eyes. You read the words that flow out of your mind. (Were they from somewhere you read?) And these two activities are when I meet my ghostly friends.
I enjoy the late nights alone (just the sound of goldfish in fish tanks with motors accompanies me). I always feel secure in the knowledge that I can stop to contemplate. To 'witness' so to speak. It is like an enclosed temporal moment when I stop being the normal me, who is one who takes over me and behaves according to the situation. It is not that I am always conscious of how I behave, but I am trapped in the hours before I sleep, to face myself as myself and not myself, and shake my head in disgust and envy.
I am envious, that I am living a life; that I can be stubborn about things that are not good for me and still get away with it.
But I am digusted that I am living a life; of every step that is marked by a temptation and a movement in relation to that temptation.
my heightened consciousness is always at work. and it is only at the hours before I sleep, to seriously be myself, in a contemplative, discerning me, who hates and loves myself, building and destroying myself, when I have the knowledge that I have spent another day away from the House of God.
but precisely. It is this relation with God that continues to remind me of what needs to be done. I cannot stand it any longer. But to scream it out loud here, is not an action to solve my problem. It is just an acknowledgment that I love myself too much to not stand it.
It is not to think that I have to do it. But it will be done or already done.
For all things are false. As long as they do not happen. Truths can be hidden away. But the truth of an act done cannot be.
the doing convinces us of the truth of the false.
and so I cannot do, if I am convinced of its falsehood.
and so in my not-doing, I partake in another falsehood, that of the doing of my not-doing, even though I am convinced they are true.
HA. Bloody ha.
the actual act that should be esteemed should be the inward one. One that demands nothing from the outside, but only the inside of himself; or as Kierkegaard puts it,
I feel, as if a hand is grabbing me, and wipes the tear I shed unknowingly when I read words that touch me.
I hear, as if a loud laughter echoes the room, when I read the words of mockery (of humanity). It is me, laughing with them.
I see, as if I am in a dark room, and I am blind, wandering in stationary wilderness. But there, out of a page, there is my long lost companion, waiting for me to share a candle.
Reading and writing has that immense sensation of being watched and feeling as if someone is guiding your fingers and eyes. You read the words that flow out of your mind. (Were they from somewhere you read?) And these two activities are when I meet my ghostly friends.
I enjoy the late nights alone (just the sound of goldfish in fish tanks with motors accompanies me). I always feel secure in the knowledge that I can stop to contemplate. To 'witness' so to speak. It is like an enclosed temporal moment when I stop being the normal me, who is one who takes over me and behaves according to the situation. It is not that I am always conscious of how I behave, but I am trapped in the hours before I sleep, to face myself as myself and not myself, and shake my head in disgust and envy.
I am envious, that I am living a life; that I can be stubborn about things that are not good for me and still get away with it.
But I am digusted that I am living a life; of every step that is marked by a temptation and a movement in relation to that temptation.
my heightened consciousness is always at work. and it is only at the hours before I sleep, to seriously be myself, in a contemplative, discerning me, who hates and loves myself, building and destroying myself, when I have the knowledge that I have spent another day away from the House of God.
but precisely. It is this relation with God that continues to remind me of what needs to be done. I cannot stand it any longer. But to scream it out loud here, is not an action to solve my problem. It is just an acknowledgment that I love myself too much to not stand it.
It is not to think that I have to do it. But it will be done or already done.
For all things are false. As long as they do not happen. Truths can be hidden away. But the truth of an act done cannot be.
the doing convinces us of the truth of the false.
and so I cannot do, if I am convinced of its falsehood.
and so in my not-doing, I partake in another falsehood, that of the doing of my not-doing, even though I am convinced they are true.
HA. Bloody ha.
the actual act that should be esteemed should be the inward one. One that demands nothing from the outside, but only the inside of himself; or as Kierkegaard puts it,
...for unless the individual learns in the reality of religion and before God to be content with himself, and learns, instead of dominating others, to dominate himself, content as priest to be his own audience, and as author his own reader, if he will not learn to be satisfied with that as the highest, because it is the expression of the equality of all men before God (by which K. could mean that we all have to stand before Him on Judgment Day) and of our likeness to others, then he will not escape reflection.
S. K. The Present Age, 1940. p 35.
because one answers for him- herself, eventually. Confessions and deaths have something in common.
You (as you the human) meet God alone. a leap!
------
it's at last time to move on.
and to deconstruct myself - 1 John 4:7
to level out things is not to be fair. nothing is fair. almost.
death is fair. every human dies.
love is not fair. not every one loves (equally)
*shakes head and goes to sleep*
S. K. The Present Age, 1940. p 35.
and reflection is not a mirror stage where one identifies oneself with, but the reflection of oneself in relation to the people around him; A person who demands from others more than he or she does to him-herself.
as this entry becomes more incoherent, the issue I am trying to make is that, at the inward level, the struggle is more demanding than what an outsider can describe for you. so I cannot be upset that someone misunderstands me because I am different, always. and the same, always. I do not speak the truth. Because I do not know the truth. I just know what I believe in.
no one can be there with me at the hours of reading, talking and learning of myself, alone. (except God).
and I don't expect anyone to. For it is always a greater challenge for me to face someone else, other than myself.
frankly. I don't want to study anymore. neither do I want to pursue some worldly dream of making films, or write stuff people will understand and applaud me for making it understandable. the point, ladies and gentlemen, is to not make a point that the world will eventually forget. there are more half-truths, repetitions and misprints in this world than what is essentially needed to live a decent life. Frankly speaking, as much as I imagine the hands and specters that roam around the house at night with me, they are not the ones I want to hang around with all the time. For it is more of the communion with my Lord that I want to have, that would cast away all those infinite pages and voices of gibberish and glossolalia, so that I do not have to continue to face them and foray through for a quick (but always wrong) answer.
there are no quick answers. Subjectivity takes on a whole new meaning than just that truth is to live an idea. Subjectivity is not the prerequisite of truth. Subjectivity is truth when the truth is to live not an idea, but to have God live in you.
as we come to another non-conclusive end to my discussion, I sincerely believe that one must die many deaths, only to discover the limits of our potential. the beginning of the secular death is not the only one. For there are things in this world, that continue to deceive us, and the most fatal one, is ourselves. I am sorry that I have to lay tombstones before you before you get to the me who stands behind these graves. But I must do what I must do, for the anointing is not for men to benefit, but for my final death to benefit. There is a hint of hypocrisy there. I will clear the mess in due time.
as this entry becomes more incoherent, the issue I am trying to make is that, at the inward level, the struggle is more demanding than what an outsider can describe for you. so I cannot be upset that someone misunderstands me because I am different, always. and the same, always. I do not speak the truth. Because I do not know the truth. I just know what I believe in.
no one can be there with me at the hours of reading, talking and learning of myself, alone. (except God).
and I don't expect anyone to. For it is always a greater challenge for me to face someone else, other than myself.
frankly. I don't want to study anymore. neither do I want to pursue some worldly dream of making films, or write stuff people will understand and applaud me for making it understandable. the point, ladies and gentlemen, is to not make a point that the world will eventually forget. there are more half-truths, repetitions and misprints in this world than what is essentially needed to live a decent life. Frankly speaking, as much as I imagine the hands and specters that roam around the house at night with me, they are not the ones I want to hang around with all the time. For it is more of the communion with my Lord that I want to have, that would cast away all those infinite pages and voices of gibberish and glossolalia, so that I do not have to continue to face them and foray through for a quick (but always wrong) answer.
there are no quick answers. Subjectivity takes on a whole new meaning than just that truth is to live an idea. Subjectivity is not the prerequisite of truth. Subjectivity is truth when the truth is to live not an idea, but to have God live in you.
as we come to another non-conclusive end to my discussion, I sincerely believe that one must die many deaths, only to discover the limits of our potential. the beginning of the secular death is not the only one. For there are things in this world, that continue to deceive us, and the most fatal one, is ourselves. I am sorry that I have to lay tombstones before you before you get to the me who stands behind these graves. But I must do what I must do, for the anointing is not for men to benefit, but for my final death to benefit. There is a hint of hypocrisy there. I will clear the mess in due time.
because one answers for him- herself, eventually. Confessions and deaths have something in common.
You (as you the human) meet God alone. a leap!
------
it's at last time to move on.
and to deconstruct myself - 1 John 4:7
to level out things is not to be fair. nothing is fair. almost.
death is fair. every human dies.
love is not fair. not every one loves (equally)
*shakes head and goes to sleep*
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