soli

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  • I hate you

    I hate you

    The moment I woke up, I saw her in front of me. Her hands were covered in blood. I tried to figure out if I was in a dream. Everything felt far too real. The emptiness in her eyes, frozen with fear, unsettled me. I didn’t want to say anything. I just looked into her eyes. I didn’t question it. I wanted to brush it off like something ordinary, like an everyday occurrence.

    Knowing kills many things… a love, or more often, a curiosity. I started to feel guilty, like a murder suspect. It’s not pain that frightens people most—it’s guilt. I wanted to stay in bed and somehow get through this, in case it really was a dream.

    My own reflection had disappeared into the void of her gaze. I’ve always been afraid of the depth in her eyes. I wondered if she noticed me. It was as if time had stopped across the universe, and all focus had gathered in this single moment. Despite all my trembling, I decided to get up.

    I approached her, meaning to ask what had happened. She flinched as if she had just noticed me. Our eyes met again. She said something, but I couldn’t understand. She was whispering. I touched her shoulder. I wanted to know what she was saying. In the rising tone of her whispers, there was only one sentence: I hate you…

  • I don’t know

    I don’t know

    I’m doing nothing. Just watching. I’ve always felt like a stranger to the chaos unfolding around me. While people constantly try to destroy each other, I sit here trying to destroy myself—what could I possibly be losing?

    Since childhood, I never wanted to be part of anything. The illusory reality I live in inside my mind has made me drunk. Maybe that’s why I don’t get along well with people.

    By claiming that I love solitude, I’m lying to myself. Loneliness is pain. Loneliness is the greatest crime. At every moment, I kill myself, only to be reborn from my pitiful corpse. I tremble with the echo of silence in my ears.

    I love thinking… until I no longer have the strength to do anything else. Most of the time, no one understands me. I don’t even try to explain. I hate explaining. I listen to people; I try to ease their burdens. I think I’ll feel happy once I solve their problems, but instead, I get more attached. I’ve started to accept that I will never be happy.

    Hoping to find happiness elsewhere, I throw myself outside. The laughter of others disturbs me. The screams inside me only grow louder. I’m certain I’ll never find peace beside anyone, and that I’ll never be able to let myself go.

    My stillness, mistaken for laziness, has started to be admired by everyone. While the hatred in my eyes becomes more visible, people have stopped looking into them. I find it strange to be such a passive link in the collective memory and yet still carry so many reference points.

    I’m sure I am nothing. Every time I stay silent, I’m forgotten. I enjoy the pain of being forgotten. Just like being erased, being forgotten is also a beautiful thing. I want to remind the voice in my head—this voice that claims to know my body—of this, but I never succeed.

    When I look back at my life through inaction, I see countless forgotten memories. My favorite memories always stem from the stillness I’ve romanticized in my own subconscious. When people ask me to talk about my past, I just stay silent—because I don’t want to share the many manipulated memories I’ve internalized. I am not so desperate as to create people who will become part of my life by sharing my past with them.

    I’m trapped inside the thoughts constantly circling in my mind, and I can’t escape them. When I close my eyes, I can’t sleep because of the world that comes alive. I remain motionless among imaginary characters who are always running around. Against a living world, I feel far too dead.

  • A Worm’s Diary

    A Worm’s Diary

    Is this me? The person in the mirror smiling into my own eyes. The first to grasp the meaning of the words that fall from my mouth—or the one who, not knowing what to do, punches walls and believes that the slightest physical pain will soothe the ache in their soul… I don’t know this person.

    I want to be the child I’ve forgotten. I don’t want to become someone else. I truly hate it. I spew mouthfuls of curses. I seize every chance to inflict pain on myself. I bite my lips to keep from unleashing what’s inside me. I resign myself to the fact that I can’t bring myself to say “fuck off.” I don’t deserve to be this person.

    My feet tremble with rage. I repeat to myself that no one must recognize who I really am. I want to be alone. I miss myself. I don’t want to offer my face to just anyone—yet they look at me and whisper only “hi.” Even if my entire body stood perfectly still, I couldn’t hide the truths in my eyes.

    I want to ask questions. I don’t even know why. I keep repeating myself. I’m so angry at myself. Living is the source of all pain. I’d do anything to escape this. Maybe only in eternal sleep will I find peace.

    With every letter, pieces of my soul vanish. I’m misunderstood—even by myself. I want to do nothing, but even that feels impossible. I can’t close my eyes for more than a few minutes. I can’t believe that the life replaying before my eyes like a film reel is mine.

    I don’t want to keep running. I don’t want to humiliate myself any further. I can’t escape—nothing can be as far from me as myself. I want to leave it all behind, but I don’t even have the courage. I lie to myself, saying I love solitude, but I never want to return to that hell again.

    Among people, I keep smiling. I try to tell them about my pain. For a moment, I feel relief, but it only climbs higher. Please, just leave me be. I want to leap from the glass skyscraper that haunts my dreams. I can’t bear the agony of living any longer.

    I don’t want to stop. I know if I do, I’ll start thinking. So long as I keep moving, I keep convincing myself. I tell myself over and over that my life isn’t worthless, yet here I am, feeling like a worm just for writing this. Again and again, I want to shout “fuck off”—to everything… to the ceaseless motion around me… to this outward shell I wear.

    I want to be free. From all of you. From myself. I repeat my own words in an effort to find strength, but nothing ever changes. I remain stuck at this same crossroads. I want to break my hand—despite all the measures I take to hide the bruises on my joints…

    And I laugh…

  • Metaphysical Nonsense

    Metaphysical Nonsense

    “All men by nature desire to know. An indication of this is the delight we take in our senses; for even apart from their usefulness they are loved for themselves; and above all others the sense of sight. For not only with a view to action, but even when we are not going to do anything, we prefer seeing to almost everything else. The reason is that this, most of all the senses, makes us know and brings to light many differences between things.”  

    Is it the inadequacy of our capacity for wonder that diminishes our metaphysical will to think, or simply a powerful curiosity toward God? We seek to integrate, dialectically, our hatred for the sensory world—with all its decay and corruption—with our quest for a flawless realm. Kant’s greatest naïveté lies in believing that from the concept of a transcendental world one could ascend to God.

    Though we know intellectually that the senses deceive—and that from birth we confront only “purely phenomenal” realities—we have still pursued truth within those limits. We have endlessly tried to unite our boundaries with our aspirations for the absolute. We searched for the “thing-in-itself” with our senses, yet we failed to extract identity from what we found.

    Plato’s theory of Ideas aimed, above all, to resolve the problem of ontology—just as Aristotle’s metaphysical substances sought it. Thus we deified these two giants, adorning them with meanings they never possessed. We shaped the history of thought by a desire to discover a truth we could not fully grasp. We draped the rules of logic over perception, then pitted that ornate perception against our sense of transcendence.

    The more refined and valued an object or a person became, the stronger grew our curiosity that thoughts might be still more precious. Yet no matter how far we advanced, we always returned to Plato. Whenever we tried to flee, we met him again at our point of departure. We perfected our systems, but always traced our origin back to a single act. We unified the totality of our beginnings and our fragments into one and the same singularity.

    We sought elevation: summoning seven plus five to gain knowledge of space and time. We concocted the absurdity of “synthetic transcendence.” We ended up alone. We staked our all on being unloved—but persisted in systematizing. We became certain that one thing could never be another, yet ignored the act of cognition that binds the two. We criticized relentlessly, only to uncover empirical realities we could not comprehend.

    We squandered our genius on the EPR path to ensure a deterministic universe. For the sake of not thinking metaphysically, we denied God’s fallibility—calling Him immutable, yet casting dice. Now we cloak the transcendent in our phenomena, and forget probabilities through induction. With each accumulation of knowledge, we continue to err.

    However hard we strive, we cannot escape normalization. Infinity or zero; zero or one. We remain mere synthetic fools.

  • My God… Why Do You Torment Me?

    My God… Why Do You Torment Me?

    We had agreed that the greatest revenge is to vanish from Your dreams. To cease waking in terror in the dead of night. To no longer behold Your sweat-drenched face beneath the dim light. To forget that You have forgotten, right there in the heart of darkness. To begin anew with the birth of morning’s first light. To witness the healing of a heart struck a thousand times. To know no more fear. To leave behind a shattered vase. To heed not the shards of glass embedded in my feet. To make peace with the blood that flows.

    At least this is how I fool myself: As if I do not see You everywhere I turn. As if I do not yearn for You even in my most secret hours. As if I do not tremble at the thought of losing You for even a single breath… I long to seek refuge by forgetting You. I know I love You, yet I pour oceans of water over the flames within my heart. I blend every moment of Your existence with my own. Even if You think I have forgotten You, I recreate You in each of my universes—and love You anew.

    I am ashamed of the tears I shed each night. I press a pillow to my mouth so You cannot hear my screams. I wish to erase Your footprints from the depths of my mind, yet I cannot bar the paths of my heart to You.

    My God… why do You torment me? My God… why do You make me feel so intensely?