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Deceitful EmotionThere are few matters in life in which I feel I cannot reach a satisfiable understanding of with-in several weeks.
Of course, here I am barring academia and the like...
No, I'm talking about matters of a far more practical level. Why do people say hello to each other? Why is there stigma? Why do people swear? Questions like these, I can usually answer, given enough time.
I guess why I ask these questions is because many actions don't seem natural too me. Maybe it's because I never really was all that great at adopting actions regardless of their nature. I don't know really. But them being answered seems to be integral to the continuation of my being content.
Yet a concept I do not understand, and fear I will never really will, is happiness. Cliche, I admit, but true.
I remember reading an article, a while back, about sports stars- American footballers, and their head injuries. It talked about the life expectancies and how, in general, being a sports star wasn't all that great. But it w
The Pseudo-Nihilist.Inevitably, I always come to the same conclusion; subjectivity.
I identify with the nihilist label, and have done for a while. I accept that good and bad are abstract concepts- intangible, not subject to empirical measurement, and subjective.
I don't subscribe to concepts such as real and fake- yet I can say I have felt the former statement to be real- true, for a while, several years infact. I feel after several years I should have came to terms with the rationale I've gone over so many times.
Yet I find this not to be the case.
I often will feel an uncontrollable sense of anger at injustices committed. If it's not anger it's depression. If it's not depression, it's disgust for my humanity and misanthropy to every other individual occupying this world.
I tell my self over and over in my head that there is no right, there is no wrong, there just is. But none of it registers.
It angers me that bigots have views that conflict with mine. It depresses me that people find the bigoted views
A Bloody, Stupid Miracle The day we’d cured the human condition was the day I put a bullet through my head and didn’t die. It was also the day I realized how scared I actually was of death, and after hours of muscle ache from holding that gauze against my open skull, after the wound closed and everything went back to normal, I had myself a good old-fashioned brainstorm. How ironic.
But when summer came, everything had fallen to shit. The air scorched my skin and parched my tongue every time I took a breath. The sun glared down on a rapidly-collapsing world, full of the undying bastard children of cruelty and misfortune. What was one to do when their cells regenerated faster than they decomposed?
My feet hit the pavement, now littered with jagged bits of glass to snap at my toes, thoroughly baked by the blazing ball of bitter disdain high overhead. Today was worse than yesterday. Though I’d often wondered the purpose of it anymore, I
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