The task of the solitary man is to be even more solitary - Emil Cioran
It happens all of a sudden. A random conversation with a friend. A conversation that is not even solidified in voices, rather through words on the screen. My mind reads it in my own voice. Yet, there is something in its rhythm that is not me. Perhaps, that's the awareness of self that I should be thankful for.
Nevertheless, it reminds me how long it has been since I spoke to someone outside my house. My cousins call often. But I leave those conversations to my parents. The pandemic might have taken a toll beyond human measure. Children dead. Old people eaten alive by the ruthlessness of life. A million hands for ten loaves of bread. For me, it has been a cocoon from all the noise in the world.
I like being abandoned. Call me crazy, and many do, but you cannot really be sure of knowing yourself unless you only have yourself to know. I know every inch of my insecurity, and its insecurity, and the pride with which it clings to self-awareness. I spend my days walking through the words of dead men and women, who unlike me made better use of their time. I have too much of it, so I burn it in vain.
Mother says I have lost all my hair because I think too much. I don't, but I would hate to get into a conversation about that. I want to be left alone, even by my parents. I wish they would go away sometimes. The world feels too much with me. It keeps poking me in the ribs asking me to attend to it.
I sort out article work for my job. Bank accounts call. I sort out the numbers for the future. Parents call. I sort out their daily needs for now. Their fears call. I cannot handle the future. How people manage to solidify something that has not even been born amazes me. It feels like life is nothing but one task after another in wait for an impossible one.
I am starting to understand Camus' Sisyphus a little better every day. In fact, I am wandering towards Cioran all the more. The idea that one has to endure this life, which is worth nothing and will amount to nothing for me, is unendurable.
What was it Jaun Elia said 'Jo guzaari na jaa saki/Hum ne woh zindagi guzaari hai (That which could not be endured/That life has been endured)
They say you are drawn to nihilists when you lack courage. Not true. It takes courage to admit that nothing is worthy. That everything is redundant. If the world can forget Napoleon, it can forget you. The idea that this world, your life, existence has something to give to 'you' feels like a very egotistical definition.
Which brings me to the conversation with my friend. She said "Your parents had you for a reason. There was a point to your existence."
Unknowingly, she referred to the very thing that most people do. When you cannot figure it out, leave it to someone else, and blindly follow them. Religion. Ideology. Philosophy. Call it what you will.
So, no thanks, Cioran. I will endured. Perhaps with a little more courage. Perhaps with a little more bitterness than you did. Maybe Camus will join me. Or maybe Nietzsche. Or maybe none.
That would be right. I have to deal with myself by myself. For myself.
It happens all of a sudden. A random conversation with a friend. A conversation that is not even solidified in voices, rather through words on the screen. My mind reads it in my own voice. Yet, there is something in its rhythm that is not me. Perhaps, that's the awareness of self that I should be thankful for.
Nevertheless, it reminds me how long it has been since I spoke to someone outside my house. My cousins call often. But I leave those conversations to my parents. The pandemic might have taken a toll beyond human measure. Children dead. Old people eaten alive by the ruthlessness of life. A million hands for ten loaves of bread. For me, it has been a cocoon from all the noise in the world.
I like being abandoned. Call me crazy, and many do, but you cannot really be sure of knowing yourself unless you only have yourself to know. I know every inch of my insecurity, and its insecurity, and the pride with which it clings to self-awareness. I spend my days walking through the words of dead men and women, who unlike me made better use of their time. I have too much of it, so I burn it in vain.
Mother says I have lost all my hair because I think too much. I don't, but I would hate to get into a conversation about that. I want to be left alone, even by my parents. I wish they would go away sometimes. The world feels too much with me. It keeps poking me in the ribs asking me to attend to it.
I sort out article work for my job. Bank accounts call. I sort out the numbers for the future. Parents call. I sort out their daily needs for now. Their fears call. I cannot handle the future. How people manage to solidify something that has not even been born amazes me. It feels like life is nothing but one task after another in wait for an impossible one.
I am starting to understand Camus' Sisyphus a little better every day. In fact, I am wandering towards Cioran all the more. The idea that one has to endure this life, which is worth nothing and will amount to nothing for me, is unendurable.
What was it Jaun Elia said 'Jo guzaari na jaa saki/Hum ne woh zindagi guzaari hai (That which could not be endured/That life has been endured)
They say you are drawn to nihilists when you lack courage. Not true. It takes courage to admit that nothing is worthy. That everything is redundant. If the world can forget Napoleon, it can forget you. The idea that this world, your life, existence has something to give to 'you' feels like a very egotistical definition.
Which brings me to the conversation with my friend. She said "Your parents had you for a reason. There was a point to your existence."
Unknowingly, she referred to the very thing that most people do. When you cannot figure it out, leave it to someone else, and blindly follow them. Religion. Ideology. Philosophy. Call it what you will.
So, no thanks, Cioran. I will endured. Perhaps with a little more courage. Perhaps with a little more bitterness than you did. Maybe Camus will join me. Or maybe Nietzsche. Or maybe none.
That would be right. I have to deal with myself by myself. For myself.
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