/lit/ - Literature

Comparisons between east and west. Giant robots. Monsters. Small details that make all the difference. Malcolm X, Borges, to be uprooted. Phoebus or Bacchus. Tranquility or terror. I never choose to turn away--turning away is something I only do in the middle of torpor. It is a strange thing to think about, but it's so familiar. I still can't just sleep however. I wonder why. Even when I'm tired it's hard for me to sleep.

What the judges have called decay might not be decay at all. When a rose blooms, it becomes more chaotic, more dense, not less. I think that's the real question. Is the truth complex or clean cut? I've felt it was either at different times. On the one hand, I really dislike the art deco-like styles: two much separation between light and dark; too simple, too secure, too toyish. On the other, uplifting emotions should be allowed to be free as grounding ones are. I wonder (I've wondered) why artists, writers specially, are so depressing. Why is happiness so hard to make true? Why are words so hard to believe? Perhaps because they belong to everyone. The masses. The hate for the masses. Those people I don't know, but can reach me, can speak to me. Neither foreigners nor family. Cannot be kin, cannot be guests. Must I answer them? Who doesn't long for a time when they could've known every person on earth?

Yet. That is a mistake? Brought on about by human categorization. When humanity become transcendent, then it becomes the problem. Before the world was only what we saw, the rocks and trees were as much our world as the tribe. But now... The strong wish to return to this state in their gardens. The weak dream of a world that is only human. Both are flawed. And, of course, this is all retroactive. I nonetheless refuse to make a choice. Perhaps a great virtue is displayed in not speaking that word which is at the tip of the tongue. To say things "simply". It is to throw oneself against the current. And yet it's more than compassion for the other. In a way, it's a form of pride. Insults and jokes are alike in that they wear off, and are dismantled by being explained--perhaps Benjamin was correct in that explaination is a form of immediacy. Can I do away with myth? I wish to. But it's not easy. Can it even be done? If I've really understood, silence is the base of everything. Then... to leave the base. Can that be done? To leave what is always going on. I wish to be completely new. This isn't because I hate those that came before. But the desire to be only myself still persist. I see the benefits in the ways of old. It's not like I think I can so simply do away with them. But I must be myself. Otherwise, what am I? If I'm not something beside others, how come I am at all? Gestalt, hmm? Yes. Perhaps fabrication is not to be taken pessimistically. That I can be destroyed, die, be torn apart, those are not faults. Rather... they can be the proof that I something more! That I am, indeed, a whole!