Journals48
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Why I lack empathy. (In theory, anyway.)
1 min read
I tend to see people in accordance to the size of their problems. Not in the importance of how they see the obstacles themselves but, in the cold and objective reality of them. Why? I have no idea. But in my eyes, you are what you can take, and should be acknowledged and treated as such. Not as an excuse but as the paved road behind the individual. So, I see small people with their small problems, magnified by their inability to manage, and I can't help but to become nauseous. Quite literally, tragically. I see people with the shit to their chest and respectfully observe, from a distance. If they make it, good for them. If not, well, we all lose some. And to all, our time shall come. In the simplest terms, "Oh, well."
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Belief System.
1 min read
I don't believe in luck. I don't believe in politics. I don't believe in karma. I don't believe in the supernatural. I don't believe aliens. I don't believe in most people's morals and ethics (the "good" in 'em.) I don't believe in love, and I sure as hell don't believe in God. Truth is, I don't believe in much, but I do tend to believe in myself, one way or another, and that's pretty much all I really f*ckin' need.
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clubs.
4 min read
While in my outings, yesterday, I came across two memorable* (lack of better, more appropriate wording) pocket change acquaintances. None of them seating next to me. I did not look to see faces or their respectable companionship. All I knew was their voices. The first of the two, a male, early twenties, I assumed, due to the substance of the subject being talked about; a layman, philosophical analysis on John Hughes' The Breakfast Club. Now, laugh not, god only knows how hard it was for me not to at the time, I understood the points being made by the fella. However, this being when I realize his plausible age, I assumed he was still in school, NOT taking philosophy (or sociology, for that matter) and still in the middle of the enlightening "self-discovery" splendor phase. In which, if I may explain, one is to pick one out of two sides. Either you become a cynical asshole, as I did at the time, or, an overly sensitive bullshit expert. This good fellow, falling under the latter category of the two. I can't blame him. I can only blame the age, and the schools.
When his stop arrived (or I imagined it did, due that after that point, I did not hear more of him) I only got to see the back of him. This, again, being another assumption of mine given that there was only one male rider getting off then. Some assumptions seemed correct. Yes, he was still in school (backpack), and yes, he was still at a young age-- seemingly of teen-age, probably in his early twenties, given my personal experience. Now, the second pocket change acquaintance, was also under the same circumstances as the first; no physical image, only a voice.
This second was also a male, somewhere around mid twenties and early thirties. Again, this merely a probable assumption of mine. This fella was not talking about a film, but rather, about his personal perspective of a share of 'the everyday people'. Under a much lesser philosophical light-- but, undeniably, just as theoretical. Hearing him talk was like an unintentional Tyler Durden impersonation. Contained laughter, again. Not because I thought it absurd, like with the first, but because I knew this wasn't an attempt to sound like a fictitious character (again, not intentionally, to my perspective.) And on that note, I am not sure of under what category he would fall. Cynical a-hole or BS expert. If anything I was sure of was, he did not belong to the first pocket-change-acquaintance's club of breakfast, but rather, one of fight.
Some of my assumptions were met, other probabilities, which did not even occurred to me, were, too, met. Like the confessing of his once jail intake to his proper chat counterpart. I'd like to clarify that in the middle of all this, I was merely an observant. I did not part take in any of the word exchange nor was I noticed as being of such. And if I was anyone at all, fictitiously speaking, to fit appropriately, I was Edward Norton's insomniac self, not his alter-ego. Or Molly Ringwald, if you will, not Judd Nelson. Although Norton would have fitted me best, due that I almost* (to my belief, anyway, I do not remember) fell asleep somewhere in the middle of the trip. In fact, it was because of this tiring moment, which I still don't understand how I got there to begin with, that I saw the second pocket change acquaintance's face. A sudden involuntary movement of mine made my sunglasses fall off and woke me-- I think. To my surprise, Fight Club boy sounded appropriate to his physical form; an envious zen-like calmness mixed with apathy. Though that last bit, you can blame my perception alone, not the fella.
Yes, he did look about the assumed age. No, he did not get off the ride, unlike myself.
My stop came and that was it. I was me again. No clubs involved.
When his stop arrived (or I imagined it did, due that after that point, I did not hear more of him) I only got to see the back of him. This, again, being another assumption of mine given that there was only one male rider getting off then. Some assumptions seemed correct. Yes, he was still in school (backpack), and yes, he was still at a young age-- seemingly of teen-age, probably in his early twenties, given my personal experience. Now, the second pocket change acquaintance, was also under the same circumstances as the first; no physical image, only a voice.
This second was also a male, somewhere around mid twenties and early thirties. Again, this merely a probable assumption of mine. This fella was not talking about a film, but rather, about his personal perspective of a share of 'the everyday people'. Under a much lesser philosophical light-- but, undeniably, just as theoretical. Hearing him talk was like an unintentional Tyler Durden impersonation. Contained laughter, again. Not because I thought it absurd, like with the first, but because I knew this wasn't an attempt to sound like a fictitious character (again, not intentionally, to my perspective.) And on that note, I am not sure of under what category he would fall. Cynical a-hole or BS expert. If anything I was sure of was, he did not belong to the first pocket-change-acquaintance's club of breakfast, but rather, one of fight.
Some of my assumptions were met, other probabilities, which did not even occurred to me, were, too, met. Like the confessing of his once jail intake to his proper chat counterpart. I'd like to clarify that in the middle of all this, I was merely an observant. I did not part take in any of the word exchange nor was I noticed as being of such. And if I was anyone at all, fictitiously speaking, to fit appropriately, I was Edward Norton's insomniac self, not his alter-ego. Or Molly Ringwald, if you will, not Judd Nelson. Although Norton would have fitted me best, due that I almost* (to my belief, anyway, I do not remember) fell asleep somewhere in the middle of the trip. In fact, it was because of this tiring moment, which I still don't understand how I got there to begin with, that I saw the second pocket change acquaintance's face. A sudden involuntary movement of mine made my sunglasses fall off and woke me-- I think. To my surprise, Fight Club boy sounded appropriate to his physical form; an envious zen-like calmness mixed with apathy. Though that last bit, you can blame my perception alone, not the fella.
Yes, he did look about the assumed age. No, he did not get off the ride, unlike myself.
My stop came and that was it. I was me again. No clubs involved.
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morbid.
4 min read
Friday, April 12, 2013 at 1:59pm
mor·bid (môrbəd)
Adjective
Characterized by or appealing to an abnormal and unhealthy interest in disturbing and unpleasant subjects, esp. death and disease.
Of the nature of or indicative of disease.
Synonyms
unhealthy - diseased - unsound - ill - sickly
It is interesting to learn others' perception of one's self. Specially when it comes to a surprise to one's self. For instance, as an artist, in the traditional sense, I consider my work to be a direct reflection of my self. Perhaps mangled with, perhaps polished, but a reflection nonetheless. I might be wrong about this, in comparison to other artists, but that's merely where I stand. (Again, one's reality lies within one's perception alone.)
In accordance to some very—blunt audience members, my work is Morbid. Now, this threw me off because I had never thought about adjectives when it came down to it. Nor myself. Of course, by extension, I suspect I am seen as Morbid myself too. Even if people do not say it. Now I know.
Other's perception of myself worries me little to nothing. Regardless, I'm still in suspended shock. Morbid. There's something about that word that haunts me… No. Let me try that again. It does not haunt me, it bothers me. Why? I'm not sure, but it might have something to do with my own perception of myself (and in connection, my work.) I have never seen myself as—abnormal. Even if my often-used screen name betrays me so.
If anything, that was a joke to myself…
Trust me, I have never seen myself as any kind of "special" (I have yet to understand the usage of that word), or unusual. I have always considered myself as one of the most boringly average sort of person. Like anyone else. An absolute, far-fetch from Morbid.
Call me delusionally oblivious, if you wish, but it's nothing but the truth. As I see it. I have always seen myself as normal. Average. Thus my interests, opinions, perceptions, work, et cetera, also become such. Chain reaction, "Morbid" is "Normal" to me.
Then again, I'm used to myself. So I can see how this can be confusing...
It rings antagonistic, maybe that's why it bothers me.
On that note, my self-perception as "boringly average" it's not meant to be taken as self deprecating. So, do keep your uplifting words and compliments to yourself. I'm not fond of them (I needn't them.) Unlike I am fond of normalcy. So, yes, this, again, self-perception is, if anything else, very much comforting to me. I've always enjoyed the thought of being average. There's a serenity, a calmness to it. I like that. Besides, we all know that with being "unique", about the most misused word in the world, comes attention, and I've always hated drawing attention to myself. Even if unintentionally.
I can handle it, sure. But the act of seeking it--well, in my humble opinion, it lacks taste.
Now, I might be many things, but stupid is not one of them. Even from a layman point of view. I am more than aware of myself. And I am also aware that my interests and, again, my perception of things (situations and people along), aren't the most popular when talking about those among the average folk. Which is fine by me. I have learned to live with that. However, there's a stretch from point A to being considered Morbid.
I believe the "shock" factor of it, to myself, may have something to do with my inability to remember and consider people's sensibilities. Not because I don't understand them, I do, even if merely intellectually speaking. But because I have a tendency to forget that most people experience said sensibilities quite differently from myself. Which's often my downfall.
Alas, lo que sera, sera.
mor·bid (môrbəd)
Adjective
Characterized by or appealing to an abnormal and unhealthy interest in disturbing and unpleasant subjects, esp. death and disease.
Of the nature of or indicative of disease.
Synonyms
unhealthy - diseased - unsound - ill - sickly
It is interesting to learn others' perception of one's self. Specially when it comes to a surprise to one's self. For instance, as an artist, in the traditional sense, I consider my work to be a direct reflection of my self. Perhaps mangled with, perhaps polished, but a reflection nonetheless. I might be wrong about this, in comparison to other artists, but that's merely where I stand. (Again, one's reality lies within one's perception alone.)
In accordance to some very—blunt audience members, my work is Morbid. Now, this threw me off because I had never thought about adjectives when it came down to it. Nor myself. Of course, by extension, I suspect I am seen as Morbid myself too. Even if people do not say it. Now I know.
Other's perception of myself worries me little to nothing. Regardless, I'm still in suspended shock. Morbid. There's something about that word that haunts me… No. Let me try that again. It does not haunt me, it bothers me. Why? I'm not sure, but it might have something to do with my own perception of myself (and in connection, my work.) I have never seen myself as—abnormal. Even if my often-used screen name betrays me so.
If anything, that was a joke to myself…
Trust me, I have never seen myself as any kind of "special" (I have yet to understand the usage of that word), or unusual. I have always considered myself as one of the most boringly average sort of person. Like anyone else. An absolute, far-fetch from Morbid.
Call me delusionally oblivious, if you wish, but it's nothing but the truth. As I see it. I have always seen myself as normal. Average. Thus my interests, opinions, perceptions, work, et cetera, also become such. Chain reaction, "Morbid" is "Normal" to me.
Then again, I'm used to myself. So I can see how this can be confusing...
It rings antagonistic, maybe that's why it bothers me.
On that note, my self-perception as "boringly average" it's not meant to be taken as self deprecating. So, do keep your uplifting words and compliments to yourself. I'm not fond of them (I needn't them.) Unlike I am fond of normalcy. So, yes, this, again, self-perception is, if anything else, very much comforting to me. I've always enjoyed the thought of being average. There's a serenity, a calmness to it. I like that. Besides, we all know that with being "unique", about the most misused word in the world, comes attention, and I've always hated drawing attention to myself. Even if unintentionally.
I can handle it, sure. But the act of seeking it--well, in my humble opinion, it lacks taste.
Now, I might be many things, but stupid is not one of them. Even from a layman point of view. I am more than aware of myself. And I am also aware that my interests and, again, my perception of things (situations and people along), aren't the most popular when talking about those among the average folk. Which is fine by me. I have learned to live with that. However, there's a stretch from point A to being considered Morbid.
I believe the "shock" factor of it, to myself, may have something to do with my inability to remember and consider people's sensibilities. Not because I don't understand them, I do, even if merely intellectually speaking. But because I have a tendency to forget that most people experience said sensibilities quite differently from myself. Which's often my downfall.
Alas, lo que sera, sera.
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valentine's day entry
1 min read
i always toyed with the idea that "love" was both innocent and devious. y'know, half kid-like puppy love and half "bam, slam, thank you ma'am"... but, y'know, that's just me and my crazy ideas on somethin' i'll never understand, luckily, hopefully and thankfully.
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