The abandoned churches, the abandoned faith - or merely the difficulty in finding the divine, the hidden away meaning of life, the wilderness expanding as largely as the hidden questions of life.
The desolation, the heat cremating intention and ambition -
It leaves room for searching the fabric of purpose, under the pressure of a wide wasteland, where nothing is too close to anything, not even man close to grasping existence.
It leaves room for loneliness, and a lonely man is different from the common folk - there’s no interference of love or care to buzz around his ideologies and principles.
In the face of loss, the lonely person lives at the margins of existence, hence having a tall perspective that is predisposed to questioning everything, at the expense of giving themselves fragile answers and having to live with knowing that they have overcome ignorance.
Inclined towards cynicism and nihilism, a lonely person’s mind is hard to change - not because it’s impossible, but because we all, at the depths of our sentience, agree with their understandings, only we fail in the face of acceptance, clung too far into the material.
It is only when the exterior divine stalls with its appearance, that we finally seek the divine in us for taking action.
In the everyday man, there’s the arrogance of never being content with what the day has to offer, always disappointed at the encounter with the mediocre, and hateful at the sight of anything extraordinary.
Tired of being predetermined to wish for more and not being able to achieve it… trying to understand the blueprint of sense, at the bottom of intention, somehow stuck with seeing the glass half empty…
Only for some of us everything’s dry. We become thirsty for understanding, thirsty for guidance, thirsty to do something and be good at it, feeling like success is a dream that comes only to those who have a good night's sleep.
And routine becomes a snake-disguised, long tight coat, smothering you more and more each time you breathe in.
Alone, cold and scared, always looking at the world through ghost-filtered glasses, cursed to see every person you meet along the way, deformed to someone you once knew.
The pathetic feeling at the corner of your lungs, a beating heart that echoes thumps of longing… And never, not even when deaf, could you not hear it.
The crisp air as you take another curious breath, the maverick scent of being forced to let go.
Staying alive just to see what happens next.
Because here we are, at the roots of underachievement, staring at this sky-scraping awful tree, trying to figure out if it’s ever gonna blossom. So we drink up a self-induced helplessness - and that’s why the glass is never full.
the absurd, the absurd, at the corner of everything.
The heart-shaped happiness we chase is nothing but an ideal, an illusion, a religion…
And we are all believers.
And you can’t help but wonder who’s so cruel to drag you into existence and make you capable at the same time…
And WHO has the amiability to forgive our trespasses, lead us not into temptation and deliver us from evil?
It only come to us after, as punishment or redemption, or masked as a life lesson,
transforming into the evidence that guilt is the human connection to the wrong, and pride to the good.
There’s comfort in knowing opposites exist; on our human plane we created right and wrong so the overwhelming experience of polarity is minimised in its horror.
Because it is truly terrifying to know, that
When you do something wrong, there’s a version of yourself that could’ve done the right thing.
It’s hard to navigate through this world, and our compasses - they are faulty by default,
always pointing to the wrong decision.
No wonder you seem so keen to pass over to eternity, never to be forced to move forward, off the rails of this two-faced train we call progress.
Held at gunpoint willingly.
It’s only then you find the courage to face the abyss.
