Wednesday, 8 May 2019

conversations with strangers (chapter two): a little sick inside

May 08, 2019 1 Comments
A film still from Jeune et Jolie (Young and Beautiful), dir. Francois Ozon, 2013

I don't believe in good or bad people. I don't believe in the personality of words thrown against you. I don't believe that people can take the judgments of others personally because people don't really see you for who you are. People don't really see what lies above the complications and contradictions, and people don't seem to be interested in wanting to know those hidden complexities that define you. People only see an image of you that they've created in their own heads or an image of yourself that you've imposed upon the world whether conscious or unconscious of that own projection... people only know you for what they seek and what they want. People only know you from a superficial framework of assumption and false deduction, and it can be terrifying to know that every single one of us has been and will constantly be an unwanted victim of black and white thinking. An unwanted victim of fixed perspective. An unwanted victim of "walking automatons" unwilling to break free from their own monstrosities and hypocrisies. An unwanted victim of alienation and constantly being misunderstood by the rest of the world. Sometimes, not knowing how to cope or deal with that facet of loneliness and undesired self-victimization. Sometimes, not knowing if you're losing yourself in overthinking, and losing yourself in trying to maintain humble, benevolent energy.

Film stills from Chungking Express, dir. Wong Kar Wai, 1994
The thought of constant suffering. The thought of neverending mistakes. The thought of imposing pain upon yourself and others. It's the thought of the unbalanced sense of self. The sort of sense that makes you question whether or not you deserve the forgiveness of others, or whether or not the mistakes you make are a matter of seeking forgiveness in your own voice than through the words of other people. The worthlessness of meaningless and insincere apologies. The worthlessness of being dragged down by the past, and consuming yourself in guilt over people who never really cared for you in the first place. People who point their fingers to blame you for your vulnerable form of admittance and honesty... People who point their fingers in hopes to see you crash and fall by imposing a scapegoated titled upon you... People who are unaware of the destructiveness of their desire for normalcy and perfection... People who are baffled by those who confidently revel in their own faults and flaws... People wholly consumed by their ego to the point where they can't fathom accepting their innate imperfections, and how denying their own sense of flawed humanity is the worst form of unrealized self-destruction.

Film stills from Taxi Driver, dir. Martin Scorsese, 1976
Sometimes there's no time and place for apologies and forgiveness. Sometimes there's no place for conversations to happen when you lose something in yourself, or when someone has lost something over you. 

The latter case is difficult to accept. The latter case comes with the consequence of short term pain. The latter case is allowing yourself to drown in the reflection of your own sins, and allowing other people to temporarily define you through the monstrosity you choose to unveil to the world. A form of cleansing yourself from the past to move on from the burden of insecurities... to move on from the burden of hatred... to move on from the perpetual toxicity of self-victimization. The antagonizing state of laws of attraction gone wrong. The antagonizing state of trying to figure out when to pick yourself up, and how to pick yourself up safely. Deconstructing the illusion of sanity, and trying to land on both of your feet with a steady stance ready to face the chaotic state of the world and your existence - because nobody wants to hear the truth. Nobody wants to hear the truth as much as it can be the only weapon to set yourself free from chains that have been dragging you down to the past. Nobody wants to follow that instinct in the back of their hearts and minds consuming the subconscious thought that sometimes you need to take that extra step of courage. That sometimes you have to admit to yourself when you have wronged and robbed and stolen the light in yourself and other people. That sometimes it's okay to revel in your imperfections because you can only grow through suffering and pain to bring yourself back to the balanced sense of self. The idealized and realistic form of existence - a neutral form of awareness.

Loneliness is less physical than we've been brought up to believe. Loneliness can manifest beyond a point of isolation whether imposed or involuntary. You learn a lot from just being by yourself, only to realize how loneliness hits you the deepest when you're surrounded by so many people asking and taking, giving and receiving. Coming in and out of your life as if you belong to them, and they're in this entitled position to take hold of all your precious time and space. Take hold of every inch of your life as if you are nothing of autonomous value... devoid of freedom and individuality... pigeonholed to their own superficial standard of supposition... They are people who foolishly correlate isolation to loneliness... people who don't see value in what you can learn from being on your own rather than intervening and diving into the existence of others. Avoid those unwilling to respect your time and space. Avoid those who try to dictate your thoughts and beliefs. Avoid those who constantly define you through their own assumptions and the superficiality of physical illusions, because you are not in their best interest. You are not the people they truly want to know, and you are not the people they truly want to rescue. They are not friends, but unconscious enemies of the body and soul. Only you know what's best for yourself, and the more you learn to revel through an individualist framework the stronger you'll become as a person.     

A film still from Carmen, dir. Jean-Luc Godard, 1983