An argument with yourself

People keep asking themselves questions—if they can afford to—with no real answers. WHY ARE WE SO FUCKING SAD? WHY IS HAPPINESS SO EXCLUSIVE? WHY DOES AN ORGASM HAVE TO BE OVER-RATED AND YET SHORT-LIVED? Even a silly laughter lasts longer for truth's sake! The answer to the above queries—like most stuff that bothers us—lies inside. We are inherently selfish. And it doesn't take molecular physics to figure out how this happened. Industrial Revolution is not the culprit here because we've always been miserable. So blaming it on an event that kickstarted a few centuries ago would be misguided. What won't be, though, is the present generation's tendency to sit on padded chairs and pass judgments at will. Building castles in air is out of fashion hence nowadays we build opinions instead. The worst part is we like them to spread to every nook and corner of this planet. A little bit of effort with genuine displacement and force won't hurt. 

OK, Internet has to be the most contagious remnant of modernity but it's still not the reason behind our misery. Perhaps our bouts of sadness emanate from our digital loneliness. This remarkable sense of being someone and doing something (that doesn't translate to actual work) in our career are just few of the several symptoms attached to our current state of lostness. For instance, we seldom make eye contacts as we let our hands dance so that the person in front of us stays distracted and doesn't detect our lies. Even on the personal end, we are no different. We don't keep in touch with our old friends even  though we continue to seek newer ones on virtual platforms. The fact remains that we don't feel for anybody except ourselves. This world could do far better given the knowledge it has accumulated over the eras. It's like we know every freaking thing except how to live. If the whole idea behind existing is to be happy, then it can only take place when there's a willingness to share it. It could be anything with anyone. If nothing lasts forever, why should the rules be any different for sadness? Besides, happiness comes in all sizes.

NB: I have a problem with everything i̶n̶c̶l̶u̶d̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶m̶y̶s̶e̶l̶f̶. As i'm growing older, the realisation of time being finite is disturbing. Of course, there's always something called choice which is generally followed by a heavy dose of pain and then later hopefully, delight. But you can neither have everything nor live with nothing. There has to be a balance somewhere in the middle. Once that is located, the distinction between knowledge and wisdom shall be established.

Confessions of a pathological liar

I’ve got an authentic shit to share today. Na, not poem, property or food. Just some semi-random thoughts on a consistent behavior. The thing is I lie a lot. It’s something I’m not very proud of; nor is it one of things I can erase with a delete button. Excuse me for being poetic here: Every morning, when the mirror peeks into me, self-pity engulfs my throat for stammering while I’m shamelessly hiding behind the phalanx of a fake vocabulary. On one hand, I die during such reckless instances. On the other hand, I can live with it. Nobody expects truth anyway, specifically when you’re being cheeky with words. No one’s interested in knowing who you really are or where you come from or where you want to go or what you want. All they wish for is laughter and entertainment. They don’t know anything unless you thoroughly care to share. And when you do so, you give a piece of you away. As if your existence had a price to pay to time. But if you’re smart enough and understand the preciousness of a word, you’ll ensure a better bargain. In simpler terms, you’ll lie. Lying is an art form, they say. Well, trust me, they are lying. In reality, it’s far from that. Lies are cute but the problem is they don’t survive long. That’s how it is. They are blessed with a very low life expectancy and a very high infant mortality. Having stated that, they do make you feel powerful. At least for some fleeting moments. For example, imagine yourself spouting garbage out of your mouth and your tongue wagging like a dog’s tail—producing infinite sound and thus, music of its own—and people grasping stuff which amounts to cipher. But who can help them? Or you?

By the way, I’m just lying.