“I have always — at least, ever since I can remember — had a kind of longing for death.”
It’s 8:22 pm and I feel the need to write. I feel it so strongly within the core of my being that it is almost suffocating. This need is so potent, so trenchant, so very much non-complaisant that to ignore it would be an impossibility. I am powerless to resist it and I feel terrible. It seizes my mind, it impregnates my thoughts, it torments me until it is birthed from my head into the vibrant world, where ideas become dynamic entities onto themselves. (Yes Zeus, I do in fact sympathize with you.) It wishes to escape the confinements of my conscious and be released onto a medium of communication.
Perhaps I shouldn’t call it a need, but more like something along the lines of a longing. This longing can be broadly defined as something that is as powerful, as exhilarating, as it is unrepentantly desperate. Truthfully speaking, I have felt it for quite some time yet I have never been able to properly diagnose it. It is only recently that I have been able to call it by name but unbeknownst to myself, this longing has served as the underlying principle to most, if not all, of my blog entries so far. This longing, which burns in me with such intensity, is none other than the thirst for transcendence.
Whether to experience transcendence, to find transcendence, to see transcendence — as far as these things mean, I cannot say. For all my linguistic aptitude I am unable to relate it in a better fashion than Psyche as she explained to Orual:
“The sweetest thing in all my life has been the longing — to reach the Mountain, to find the place where all the beauty came from — my country, the place where I ought to have been born.”
The above may perhaps be the greatest few words ever spoken in 20th century literature. My longing is ubiquitous in my actions. Without myself being explicitly aware of the fact, my longing permeates everything I do through and through. It drives me to seek knowledge, it leads me in my pursuit to make sense of the world, it is the hunger for which I relentlessly consume information. In all these activities the silhouette of my longing is present and I can see it quite vividly before me, yet, it is only a silhouette.
I am a seeker, always have been and always will be. It just so happens that what I seek is something I don’t quite understand myself. It may be God, It may invariably not be God. In a way I am the religious nut, without the sex scandals. I am the transhumanist, without the idiosyncratic thought process. It’s all fine and well to say that I long for transcendence but the truth is, I long for the uncertain. I am in love with something that which I will never be able to fully comprehend and may very well never experience. In a cruel twist of fate, I live my life for death. Maybe not physical death but certainly death of my sense of self. For as long as “I” am here, the transcendent is not. Some may call this “emptying oneself”, yet there’s no skirting around the issue, we are speaking of spiritual death here.
So therefore, I am to die for something I cannot taste, smell, hear or see. I am to die for something I cannot essentially partake in as of yet, nor do I have any guarantee that I will ever partake of it in the future. Truly, I’m rather an odd individual but I take comfort in knowing that I’m not the only one. If I am to die for this passion, this longing, this need, if I must die for the true, the good, the beautiful, it simply attests to the fact that I have come too far to warrant turning around. As they say:
“Die before you Die. There is no chance after.”
I sincerely abhor most, if not all, manner of testing. It is astoundingly ludicrous to believe that a standardized test of any kind could accurately (notice the use of the word “accurately” and not “sufficiently”) define one’s person to themselves or to a third party of individuals (whatever may be the case). I believe that as a person, I am far too dynamic, far too brisk, far too–zippy even, to be faithfully reproduced in lines of mere static, impersonal, data. Sure, the sum of data may very well be me, yet I am not the sum of my data (excuse the paltry rhetoric).
That said, I recently took the MBTI (Myers-Briggs Type Indicator) test and the prospect of being labelled an INTJ, and therefore a Mastermind, promptly caused me to change my tune. (The prestige that comes with this title is quite evident in that unlike other common nouns, the “m” in this case is capitalized thus only adding to its eminence.) Suddenly I had become an honest-to-God, ardent believer in all things concept inventory related. No longer did I denounce such tests as catering to the laughable wishes of the masses. Well, I haven’t completely changed my opinion but I have found that the test has helped me a great deal in coming to understand myself. This revelation couldn’t come at a better time seeing as I somewhat recently posted on a matter related to this.
As I’ve already mentioned, I took the MBTI test and the resulting report had me typecast (how I hate this word when it is applied to my self) as an INTJ. Now just in case that there was some sort of error, I made sure to take a multiple of different tests and all throughout I consistently tested as the INTJ type. I have included in this post, two of these results and while the result is INTJ for both, the percentages are somewhat dissimilar:
Introverted (I) 72.22% Extroverted (E) 27.78%
Intuitive (N) 72.97% Sensing (S) 27.03%
Thinking (T) 79.41% Feeling (F) 20.59%
Judging (J) 69.7% Perceiving (P) 30.3%
the above are the results of a test I took at similarminds.com
or
this is one which I took on mypersonality.com. ( I greatly doubt the 100% under the introverted column. It has more to do with not being able to scale one’s answers with this test than with me actually being that anti-social of a person.)
As is supposedly appropriate for my type, I have been spending the last couple of days consuming any information on INTJs, the MBTI test itself, and the relationship between penmanship and one’s success in life (this one is rather random really and due in part to the sheer scope of my boredom). Now before ending this post, I feel compelled to once again mention that I am of the opinion that nothing is really set in stone. The description for each type consists of nothing more than generalities and in no way are to be taken as the final word on any individual, after all, “we are what we make of ourselves”.
I met myself once; it was maybe a year or two ago. I was on my way to some sort of engagement (I can’t quite remember) and on my course I cut through a park since it would save me more time as opposed to having to walk around it. Anyway, my shoe laces had become untied and so I stopped to sit at the nearby bench. As I reached down for my laces, this passerby caught my eye and I casually observed him as he walked along the cleared path.
He was rather tall, or perhaps I was just rather short. No matter, I can say with certainty that if nothing else, simply the way he carried himself was enough to make it seem as though he towered over the average individual. He seemed quite confident as well, a confidence that seeped out of him the way it would were it (I suppose) a product from a machine that continually churned out more and more material than there was room for. This may sound like a bad thing–trust me it was not. Each and every step that he took attested to the fact that the ground was there for him and only him. He neither walked too quickly nor too slowly, yet like Goldilocks would observe, “just right”. It was as if he lived by the words, “I will get there when I get there, nothing will start until I arrive, I won’t arrive until anything starts, I am simply on my way”.
He never looked my way and I’m all the more thankful for it. No doubt his stare would prove too perceptive for my taste and thereby rendering it all too unsettling. I was left to gaze at the image of his back as he made his way out of the park and then, out of sight. He never looked back–he had no need to. What he was after lay in front of him, always in front of him. Therefore it served him no purpose to look to his left or his right.
I was very much struck by him. Simply in passing he had managed to leave such a powerful impression on me that even now, one or two years later, is still as potent as on the day that I saw him in the park. He just seemed so adamantly sure of himself that I couldn’t help but get caught up in his aura, so to speak, and it seems that I’m still immensly enthralled by him.
For reasons quite unknown to me (well, I suppose that I could make an educated guess), this young man had managed to inspire me. To revitalize me. I understood, for what may very well have been the first time, that I was not the only one with a goal in life. There were others who held deeply to their aspirations as well. Sooner or later I might find myself crossing paths with them and surely I would need to exceed them in skill, understanding, and especially drive. At the moment this young man exceeded me, the distance between him and I was in all accounts quite daunting. Yet it is precisely because I seemed so dismal in comparison to him that I constantly strive to improve. I may not have caught up to him yet, I may not have become myself yet, but “I will get there when I get there, nothing will start until I arrive, I won’t arrive until anything starts, I am simply on my way”.
So, it’s been a while. I know, I know, I’ve neglected this blog but in my defence, life has been somewhat hectic and therefore I haven’t had much time to be here blogging for no audience. How utterly tragic I know…anyway enough with the apologetics.
I apologize in advance if the following isn’t congruent or if it doesn’t flow properly (yes, i do in fact have a deep-rooted passion for contradicting myself), I’m still trying to conceptualize this post in my mind and as such you may notice a severe drop in literary quality. For starters, I have this feeling. Not a thought, an idea, or some manner of story but simply a feeling which I’m currently struggling with. By that I mean that it is proving rather difficult for me to find the appropriate means to sufficiently illustrate it to you, dear reader. At the moment, I’m not quite sure what it is exactly…it sort of comes and goes at its own discretion but I’m hoping that in the process of writing this meaningless preamble, and therefore stalling for time, it’ll come my way again.
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..
…
Well this certainly discredits that theory. Here goes nothing.
I’m different. Now before we jump the proverbial gun here let me make clear that I am not in fact speaking of my sexuality (if you must know, I’m straight thank you very much). Though in hindsight I find it a tad intriguing that I immediately had to make clear the position that this would not be a post about one’s purported sexual orientation as if homosexuals had a monopoly on said phrase. Perhaps even more thought-provoking is that I now will invariably have to include a sentence in this post outlining my tolerant attitude towards said homosexuals as if even passively questioning the relationship between homosexuality and society in the context of popular speech immediately landed one into the default position of being some sort of an unapologetic, half-witted, intolerant, man-pig. But truly, this in itself is a post for another day and I shouldn’t digress so profusely from my intended subject.
So as I was saying, I’m different. In my likes and dislikes I am quite dissimilar to others my age and especially compared to members of my own sex. I thoroughly dislike parties, I dislike sports, I most especially dislike mindless fratanizing. As such, I don’t do facebook, I don’t do MSN, and I certainly don’t do “hanging out on the week-ends”. I find that I have a severe disinterest in such matters and that this apathy is beyond my power to control. Now I don’t mean to say that I am depressed, do know that I am not. It’s just that most of the time, I long to be alone (or at least with a good book).
I say this not to create the image of one who has absolved himself of all forms of attachment (because I have not). My disinterest is slightly funny because I tend to associate with the more popular crowd. If you were to see me you most likely would never guess me to feel or think this way and I surmise that this has in great parts to do with the fact that I do not project it. I never would. No one wants to be different, myself included. Therefore I act like I’m supposed to act, I laugh when others laugh, I play when others play, I cheer when others cheer–the whole lying to yourself thing. If not for week-ends then I honestly wouldn’t be able to bear it. On week-ends I can have time for myself, as effeminate as it may sound, on week-ends I have some “me” time. Sure my friends notice, and sure, sometimes I do in fact have to “be nice and play with others” but fortunately those times are quite rare.
If it came down to it, I would be forced to admit that all I have are superficial friendships and it is most likely my fault. I am friendly and will help if I’m needed yet I take care to maintain my barriers when interacting with others. Yes, like any other human, I do get lonely at times, yet the friendship I seek isn’t one which others are willing to give. So in a sick and rather twisted fashion, I occasionally take comfort in my loneliness because, as is, being exhaustively lonely is the closest I can come to the ideal friendship.
In the words of the pre-pedophilic Michael Jackson, “I’m not like other guys”.
I understand that I am rather late in saying this but I really have to get it off my chest. I can’t believe that I’m blogging. I simply can’t believe it. The word “blogging” brings to mind overweight 15 year-old girls with nothing better to do than narrate their lack of a prominent social life, and emo children who give an all too melodramatic account of their perceived “miserable” life. I couldn’t possibly join the ranks of the socially inadequate…could I? Alright, so I may not think in such extremities (nor detest emo children and obese little girls for that matter) but I am slightly ashamed of myself for succumbing to this (in hindsight) all too alluring gimmick. Provide the average person with a venue to voice their opinion… my, haven’t we reinvented the wheel here. Gosh darn it, any further such displays of blatant originality and I may be unable to hide my stupefaction.
All joking aside, let’s move on.
Blogging seems to have many, less than pleasant, connotations firmly attached to it (see above) and frankly, not all of them are ill deserved. The blogscape (or blogsphere if you wish to fall in with the general internet populace) is, truthfully speaking, densely populated with the obtuse, the inane, and the altogether useless. At times it is a vast, unfamiliar terrain of the inconsequential, the enclave of the absurd, the very consortium of frivolity, if you will. Hence, I’m really not to blame for my hitherto completely biased opinion of all things blogging and my subsequent staying away from wordpress these past six years.
Honestly, I’m not too sure why I chose to partake in this blogging phenomenon nor how I was ever able to uncouple myself from the flux of stereotypes I dare call my opinions and ever give this thing a try. If I were pressed to write than I simply could have used a pen and notebook. But I suppose that there’s something almost tantalizing about having the perfect stranger read, what at times may be one’s deepest thoughts, while the writer him/herself is protected under the veil of anonymity. So for them that keep a diary, a journal, or what-have-you, they wish for it to remain hidden yet there are also moments when the thought of exposing the contents thereof can be all types of enticing as well. (So blogging allows for the old “have your cake and eat it too” approach to life.)
Anyway enough of my boring talk. This post has ceased to be of interest, I somewhat feel like deleting it yet seeing as I’ve put in the effort to come so far, I guess that I’ll just have to bear its existence. And so will you dear reader (yet seeing as no one ever wanders to my parts of the blogscape then, sad as it may be, there’s nothing to worry about). Sigh, I really am too tired to continue this post as I had wished.
As is, this post is all kinds of worthless.
I now realize that I have spoken at length but have said relatively little. Forgive me for that, I usually try to curb this tendency of mine yet such a difficult task this is when one has quite the disturbing penchant for the inutile.
Pardonnez-moi.
Yesterday was an especially good day. Now, I don’t mean to say that something completely out of the ordinary took place, but in its own sublime manner, a strong impression was left on me. I woke up early in the morning and so I had the pleasure of sitting on my porch to patiently await the morning sun. The sky was a deep mauve with ribbons of pink here and there and, in only a few minutes, a breathtaking Tuesday would arise on the horizon. Rarely is one allowed to view such celestial harmony as was displayed in the sky on that particular day. It was amazing to see how the mauve slowly settled to blue, and the pink gave way to streaks of orange and how the sun rose in magnificent gold. (I wish I had taken a picture of it.)
This vivid image drew my mind to think. Random thoughts really, but amidst such scenery whatever I thought seemed to possess a rather transcendent air. Strangely enough, at one moment, I thought of whoever else I was sharing this view with. I certainly couldn’t be the only one who was witnessing the rise of such a splendid Tuesday. I thought about how, in a manner of speaking, at this instance in time we were connected, and how as the day wore on we might even pass each other on the street unaware of our early morning bond. What did this person look like? Did they feel the same sense of divine ordinance as myself? Could it be that, at this very moment, as I thought of them, they in turn thought of me?
It’s strange how these things work. One minute you’re worried about things both significant and mundane: university applications, where you could have misplaced your keys, whether so-and-so would call back after what happened the day before, where you’re going in life, and then there’s this moment that just gives you pause. For a few minutes you are allowed to gaze upon incomprehensible beauty, allowed to briefly behold the mythical shangri-la, to perceive the shadow of God. And though you aren’t catholic, and not even deeply religious, you find yourself uttering, “Opus Dei.” Because to describe it in any other fashion would be an injustice of the highest order.
And then it’s gone. Your hands are cold from the morning chill, you realize that you left the cup of tea you meant to bring with you on the kitchen counter, that you’ll have to slave away at work within a few hours. By the time you come back with the tea and look up to the sky again, the divine has disappeared. Understandably, you are a bit disappointed but no less grateful that you were able to partake in the experience in the first place.
Really, I wish that everyday began in such a way. Thinking about things so early in the morning really helped me in getting myself organized and cleaned my mind from most the junk I have within. Though the day was somewhat humdrum and ordinary compared to its beginnings, I found that I was more, for the lack of a better word, at peace with myself.
“We have met the enemy and he is us.” – Walt Kelly
I dislike beating myself up, really I hate it. It’s not that I turn a blind eye to my (many) failings but, incredibly, I’m all I’ve got. It serves me no purpose to flog myself, to the point of exhaustion, over what may have happened today, yesterday, or a week ago. To my great dismay, I’m not especially that big of a masochist to therefore find enjoyment out of chronically scourging my mind in such fashion daily, weekly, or even bi-weekly. Yet, although I’d rather not breathe these words to anyone (other than by way of the anonymity granted to me from the wonderful internet gods), truer words have ne’er been spoken.
I am my own enemy. I find that I lack the strength to do that which, in the long run, will benefit me. Instead, I choose to forgo what I know is good, and wise, and right; all for a temporary enjoyment that will serve no purpose in my betterment. I tempt myself with distractions and then am surprised by the outcome. In truth, there need be no distraction because I am more than willing to concoct said diversion myself. Anything will do quite frankly, as long as I can sufficiently screw myself over in the process. Take this for instance: here I am learning how it is to blog for no audience instead of learning how not to fail calculus. It’s ridiculous really. Pathetic? I know. Moronic? I know. Completely and utterly imbecilic? Oh I know–I understand all that…and yet obviously I don’t.
Although the moments when I view myself in such a light are, thankfully, few and far between, each occasion is so repugnantly saturated with truth that dilution is an impossibility. Quotes such as the above lead me down a path I’d rather not walk. The mere reading leaves me bare; it forces me to consider the state of my person, my choices, and my habits. I am dragged kicking and screaming to that familiarly foreign landscape. The ground is wet with the morning dew, the air infused with a cold chill, and there’s fog enough to successfully smother daylight. And in the midst of this wonderfully repulsive scene there am I, thinking. (Is it disheartening that the thought of me deeply thinking brings about such a depressing mental picture, I think so too.)
Honestly, I can’t stress enough how much I’d rather not have to face this. This is partly why I detest statements like the above. They lead me past my carefully crafted excuses to see the problem for what it really is. They give me no option but to own up to it, to own up to myself and risk shattering the fraudulent image we see reflected to us from our mental mirror. Contrary to my wants, I am forced to realize that what I wish for, and what is, are strikingly different. As the night the day, my will and my actions are categorically opposed to one other.
While quotes such as the above have the propensity to make one wallow in a noxious blend of misery and self-pity, by themselves they lack the strength to initiate the needed change. Realistically speaking, a mere quote can take one only so far. I suppose that this became most evident in a class I once took in which the teacher had the students design these cards which read: “Do I love myself enough to study?” Apparently I didn’t. I did however love myself enough to carefully, craft the card so that it could sit on my bedroom desk as a long-serving reminder of my fantastic failure.
As much as I’ve somewhat romanticized the problem by writing with a relatively refined air, the situation is anything but bearable. I procrastinate too much and at this rate it is really going to screw with my life. The following does well in summing up the problem:
“Sow a thought, reap an action; sow an action, reap a habit; sow a habit, reap a character; sow a character, reap a destiny.”
Cue expletives.
Let’s get right down to it: wordpress sucks. Yes sucks, as in disgustingly unagreeable or offensive. Sucks, as in the act or sound of sucking. If this were pop culture, then wordpress would be Nancy Grace–on a good day. I honestly spent the better part of two hours and 23 minutes finding a username that wasn’t already in use by some person out there (incognito, veritas, ignorant, insane, confused, blank, sardonic… you know who you are!), or meets wordpress’ draconian criteria (only letters and numbers, what is this?) and then I had to jump through another series of hoops to find a suitable password. I am this close from reciting the Shahada and pronouncing the first ever Jihad on a virtual entity. Try me.
I suppose that the root of this problem is the fact that our good lord, the wordpress developer(s), did not reserve my username and have it nicely waiting for me with a thank you card or something of the like for when I would decide to use it 6 years after the application first launched. Is my rant slightly childish and perhaps not necessary? Yes. Does this make me want to complain any less? Hardly.
Edit: In quite the juvenile fashion, wordpress refused to work for me from the hours of 11:00 PM to about 9:00 AM this morning. Evidently wordpress isn’t too pleased with my immature rant.
