It took me a while to admit that I am,
at my core,
a dark and pessimistic person.
I believe that everyone is born with an inherent selfishness,
only constrained by societal norms and laws.
These structures do not make us better;
they simply keep us from trouble for the sake of our own survival and benefit.
at my core,
a dark and pessimistic person.
I believe that everyone is born with an inherent selfishness,
only constrained by societal norms and laws.
These structures do not make us better;
they simply keep us from trouble for the sake of our own survival and benefit.
12/30/2024
I’ve been sick and stuck at home,
spending most of my time
re-reading books on my shelf,
The Stranger by Albert Camus in particular.
People call Dostoevsky the ultimate pessimist,
but Camus’ words feel far bleaker to me. Dostoevsky’s characters
dig violently for the meaning of life,
almost destructively,
as if driven by a desire for self-destruction.
Camus’ characters,
on the other hand,
seem to abandon that search entirely.
They move through life like walking dead;
aware of its meaninglessness but continuing on,
as if motivated by inertia rather than intention.
Maybe in the parallel universe,
there is a world where people don’t seek meaning
or even acknowledge its absence,
they live with quiet resignation.
They live in a world where everything,
including life itself,
has been reduced to survival.
You are just a Type of Survivor.
You are the Survivor Type.
Instead of individuals
grappling with the meaninglessness of life,
this is a society that has fully embraced it,
stripping the world down to
its barest essentials:
survival,
consumption,
and dominance.
I’ve been sick and stuck at home,
spending most of my time
re-reading books on my shelf,
The Stranger by Albert Camus in particular.
People call Dostoevsky the ultimate pessimist,
but Camus’ words feel far bleaker to me. Dostoevsky’s characters
dig violently for the meaning of life,
almost destructively,
as if driven by a desire for self-destruction.
Camus’ characters,
on the other hand,
seem to abandon that search entirely.
They move through life like walking dead;
aware of its meaninglessness but continuing on,
as if motivated by inertia rather than intention.
Maybe in the parallel universe,
there is a world where people don’t seek meaning
or even acknowledge its absence,
they live with quiet resignation.
They live in a world where everything,
including life itself,
has been reduced to survival.
You are just a Type of Survivor.
You are the Survivor Type.
Instead of individuals
grappling with the meaninglessness of life,
this is a society that has fully embraced it,
stripping the world down to
its barest essentials:
survival,
consumption,
and dominance.
01/09/2025
I’ve been back in the city where I was born for almost two weeks now.
A place that should feel like home
instead
feels
more
foreign
than
ever.
The other day,
I was staring out the window.
Along the highway,
flowers are potted from 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.❀.✿.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.❀.✿.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.❀.✿.⚘ entrance to exit. 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.❀.✿.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.❀.✿.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.❀.✿.⚘
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.❀.✿.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.❀.✿.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.❀.✿.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.❀.✿.⚘
Their existence isn’t their own.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.❀.✿.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.❀.✿.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.❀.✿.⚘
They weren’t planted to grow for their own sake.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.❀.✿.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.❀.✿.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.❀.✿.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.❀.✿.⚘
They were placed there purely for our pleasure.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.❀.✿.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.❀.✿.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.❀.✿.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.❀.✿
Condemned to breathe in the poison of cars,
forced to endure the endless honking and sirens,
they are nothing more than ornaments
in a world that demands everything exist to serve humanity.
SOMETHING RANDOM
There was a time when voices meant something.
Now,
they are swallowed by silence.
The streets stretch empty,
buildings stand like hollow ribs,
skyscrapers reduced to fossils
of a world that once pretended to care.
They move,
but they do not arrive.
They walk past each other like shadows,
no greetings,
no questions,
no reason to look up,
stripped of memories,
ground into dust.
To live is not to speak.
To live is not to dream.
To live is to simply, live.
Extinction was never an end,
just another material
for hands that know only how to take.
And so they wear them,
not as mourning,
but as proof
that they are still here.
At least,
for now.
I’ve been back in the city where I was born for almost two weeks now.
A place that should feel like home
instead
feels
more
foreign
than
ever.
The other day,
I was staring out the window.
Along the highway,
flowers are potted from 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.❀.✿.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.❀.✿.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.❀.✿.⚘ entrance to exit. 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.❀.✿.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.❀.✿.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.❀.✿.⚘
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.❀.✿.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.❀.✿.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.❀.✿.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.❀.✿.⚘
Their existence isn’t their own.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.❀.✿.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.❀.✿.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.❀.✿.⚘
They weren’t planted to grow for their own sake.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.❀.✿.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.❀.✿.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.❀.✿.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.❀.✿.⚘
They were placed there purely for our pleasure.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.❀.✿.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.❀.✿.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.❀.✿.⚘𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.❀.✿
Condemned to breathe in the poison of cars,
forced to endure the endless honking and sirens,
they are nothing more than ornaments
in a world that demands everything exist to serve humanity.
SOMETHING RANDOM
There was a time when voices meant something.
Now,
they are swallowed by silence.
The streets stretch empty,
buildings stand like hollow ribs,
skyscrapers reduced to fossils
of a world that once pretended to care.
They move,
but they do not arrive.
They walk past each other like shadows,
no greetings,
no questions,
no reason to look up,
stripped of memories,
ground into dust.
To live is not to speak.
To live is not to dream.
To live is to simply, live.
Extinction was never an end,
just another material
for hands that know only how to take.
And so they wear them,
not as mourning,
but as proof
that they are still here.
At least,
for now.
The Last