Category: Literature

Imagine a society—a realm where those who have not found a purpose in life endure profound suffering. From this suffering emerges a purpose, and with it, a so-called free will that marches in its name. The spoken words are later romanticized and committed to record, proclaiming a purpose that, though deemed immutable, shifts and evolves with each utterance. It is a culture that enfolds all, yet its consequence is to regard those, reduced to worm-like beings, with slavish disdain—a tithe extracted from bowed necks that nourishes the very purpose forged, a void chasing those too fearful to face the outcome of existence.

There are those who lie merely to echo the prevailing views of the multitude; those who, when the pressure mounts, retreat into the purpose they have fashioned—bending and twisting it to guide their way. Observe the ostentatious avenues of thieves who, to mask their hunched visages, pilfer the fruits of society’s labor; those who, terrified of thoughts breaking free, yearn for the bliss of collective ignorance; and the base toxins mingled in the spittle hurled from podiums, each drop a testament to decay.

A system asserts that anyone may don the guise of a clown—hopes painted onto faces and eyes, only to vanish with each cycle. The fools, gripped by a dread of the cold bed, risk everything to preserve the warmth of their bodies; the monkey dances performed before mirrors in their midst; the hostile stances taken against those who stray from the common lane on a busy street; the familiar privileges reserved for reflections that mirror one’s own; and the smiles on ape-like visages emerging as spoken falsehoods fade into oblivion.

Consider yourself—your actions, manipulated without intent. When night falls and eyes close, notice how the genuine thoughts behind the whisper of your inner voice gradually yield to a monotonous uniformity. Rediscover the yearning to know those truths once feared; recall the dizzying moment of first recognizing your errors; feel the trembling distraction emanating from the object clutched in your hand. Contemplate all that bars you from true thought—simply think, for it is precisely our failure to think that has rendered us as we are.

Love is the greatest sin. It is that which, as it trembles within your cold and lonely self, brings the sun into being in the blink of an eye. It is what brings the ever-distant god—darkened by your eyes—right before you. It is a moment, a fleeting glimpse, a transient feeling. It is a ritual you swear you won’t perform every night, yet every morning you do it again. It is a verse on the page of holy books, the reason for your heartbeat, the irrationality of your mind. Love is everything you have rejected.

Even if he wanted to, he woke up without thinking of anything else. Seeing her portrait on the ceiling, he smiled. He closed his eyes—not to see, but to feel; to repeatedly conjure his dream in his mind. He thought, “There is a moment”—the moment when logic takes command of the mind and forces its focus back onto life to fulfill its obligations, the very moment when one struggles to stay in bed. He had known since the first moment of the day that the reality of life would kill his imagined happiness. And that knowing would offer no solution either…

Love is like a belief. It is an experience in which you disregard the truths you think you know, become ensnared by an idea, and leave behind a person you no longer recognize when you look back. It is an experience where you lose your capacity for rational thought and find meaning amidst all absurdities, binding the entire purpose of your life to that person.

In the home where he realized he knew nothing, he unconsciously completed his necessary routines and took his first step into streets of which he was unaware. He was walking yet not seeing, thinking yet knowing nothing; his mind was like that of a prisoner straining to catch sight of the moon through the bars of a cell window. By the time he noticed the smile on his face, he had long since left home.

Is loving and being in love the same thing? We feel someone like being struck by a violent lightning bolt, and soon that intensity diminishes, giving way to a less forceful but enduring state of emotion—the continuity of which defines our idea of love. We eventually come to realize that everything we remember about our relationships, after a certain time, consists only of the meanings we imposed on the other during its most intense phase.

As he passed by, he trusted people who, like little ants, moved along; he found them close to him, and he respected the bitter stories hidden within their monotonous exteriors. For the first time, he felt close to society—rejecting the notion that they had marginalized him—and he no longer imagined a scenario where he was excluded. The place of his thoughts, once estranged from life, had changed. How was it that the society from which he had long separated himself had now embraced him?

Our effort to find our place within society might be limited to one person; when we harbor intense feelings for that right individual, we shatter those chains and have long since carved a niche for ourselves within them. Breaking our chains is intertwined with love; if we feel that overwhelming emotion toward someone, our romance extends to all of humanity.

He took a deep breath as if he had never done so before, letting the excitement—fueled by his accelerating heartbeat—allow him to feel once more the melody of his heart. The lyrics of a song converged into a single name, constraining the freedom of his thoughts. He thought, “A life worth living for her, things in life so precious that they are experienced only a few times…” Is love an entity that creates things worth living for, or merely a phenomenon? All he knew was that, deep within his soul, there were things that poisoned him—things worth living for. The image that haunted his mind, the longing without limits, the admiration he felt for every word that left her lips, the love he held for her presence—all of it merged into the singular dynamic of his thoughts.

Was love the unattainable desire? When we reach the person we long for, will we ever feel emotions as intense as before? Perhaps it was a reflection of the profound emotional burden that the sorrow of unattainability imposes on the human mind. Maybe our goals themselves are mere pursuits of that desire, which is why, even upon reaching them, we never achieve satisfaction—we always feel something is missing, the determination we lost along the way. Determination, love, hope, path, goal… all are, in essence, the deep sorrow of unattainability.

She always appeared before his eyes as a silhouette so near, yet in truth she was so far away as to be unattainable. Perhaps he was being deceived by love; could it be that the intense emotional state wrought by humanity was misleading him? He had been deceived, by a passion so intense… Perhaps humanity’s fundamental flaw lies in its inability to recognize when it is being deceived. With senses shutting down in dark alleys and thoughts awakening within them, he moved forward. What had he done today? He had thought of her… so fragile that he remained oblivious to the rule of life.

What is it that makes love, love? Is it the burst of emotional intensity that quickens our heartbeat and perhaps creates an identity for the person we love—a persona that may never truly belong to them, shaped by the meanings we assign? A burst that seems endless at first, but eventually gives way to habit.

The first thing he noticed upon entering his home was that he still had not awakened. He had been lulled to sleep by love and roused by love. He was treading the liminal line, worshiping hell, and hating heaven… Love is that which transforms our hell into heaven and diminishes the irresistible pull toward the distant gates of paradise; perhaps love is the most beautiful dream of all.

Paradise was neither there nor here; Paradise was the sound echoing within my ears. Paradise is the truth questioned before my eyes. Paradise is my ignorance’s attempt to feel special. Paradise is the refusal to accept solitude in the universe. Paradise is the species to which I belong, distinct from the animals I sought yet never found. Paradise is the bliss of the falsehoods in the sacred scriptures I have read.

Hell is my home. Hell is the dark thoughts dwelling in my mind. Hell is the forbidden love from which escape is impossible. Hell is the mirror reflection of the self experienced anew with each awakening. Hell is the collection of memories of a self unrecognizable with every passing day. Hell is the loneliness destined to be felt after death. Hell is the darkness that ensues once the lights are turned off. Hell is everything that prompts thought.

Falsehood permeates everything. Falsehood is the impulse at the very core of rendering existence livable. In its time, Falsehood was my ancestors—hidden among the bushes—rising onto two legs to encounter life. Falsehood is the initial thought of a brain that awakens once idle hands, engaged while standing on firm ground, are set to use. Falsehood is the daily act of worship performed to heighten the desire to live. Just as happiness would remain elusive without falsehood, so too would the discovery of purpose. Falsehood was an invention; falsehood was the greatest necessity.

The pain I endure among the trees is diminishing—perhaps the trees are absorbing my pain, adding new sorrows to their own. The sight of the withered trees grows even drier, and the pale hues of autumn become more pronounced with every passing second. Was I created to suffer? I lost my purpose long ago, and now even my curiosity is slowly fading… The only thing I possess is my pain-filled self, held tightly in my grasp. I have diminished myself; the outpouring of my mind has become foolish to everyone. Perhaps I am nothing but a fool.

The pain I endure among the trees is diminishing, yet perhaps my foolishness is increasing, as primal thoughts seize my mind and render my thinking elementary. I feel as though I have found myself among the trees, just as I saw in my dream last night—I crawl, I cannot walk, yet I continuously strive. Trees signify effort; despite all their pain, they still wait, enduring, clinging to the hope of the slightest drop of water to live… How I wish I could look at life with as much hope as they do—I merely watch them, laden with my own pain and inherent nihilism. Perhaps I am nothing but a fool.

The pain I endure among the trees is diminishing; I sense the forgottenness embedded in their thick bark. I wonder, will they forget me too? These are the small memories that make up life—do I have any memories to create in my humble existence? Am I worthy enough to forge memories? I am nothing more than an object forgotten beneath the leaves that carpet the forest floor. Trying to live is the greatest disgrace of my life… Perhaps I am nothing but a fool.

The pain I endure among the trees is diminishing; my eyelids grow heavy—I want to sleep, to forget. I long to forget where I am, what I do, what I desire, every tiny fragment of my existence. Life is the greatest of my pains; attempting to keep pace with it inflicts an even deeper agony. I want to crawl as in my dream, to be unable to reach, to pass indifferently by those I know, and to fall anew into the storms raging within me. Perhaps I am nothing but a fool.

The pain I endure among the trees is diminishing; I keep producing words to write—not to be understood, but to express. Will my pains lessen when I reveal them? Will writing restore the hopes I have lost? I constantly ponder my disappearing goals and vanishing hopes. As one grows, one cannot reclaim the goals lost; the only thought that occupies me is the self that has dissolved in the passage of time. I feel like a new person every day, yet nothing ever changes. Perhaps I am nothing but a fool.