Aware of the ruin
Who am I without rumination?
Maybe i will feel alright overmorrow
As I drown in this sorrow
I know, I’m aware
Fully aware of the consequences
I have drawn all the inferences
Its a gilded cage i cant escape
I’m aware of its shape
I want to sever the sins i carry
So I can be fully merry
Do we choose destructive paths knowingly?
Nihilism, catastrophism.
These are not just academic terms, they are the silent grammar of a crisis. When a universe feels purposeless (Nihilism) and every mistake feels like a predetermined catastrophe (Catastrophism), it is a broken bridge between choices and fate.
Nietzsche diagnosed that ‘he who has a ‘why’ to live can bear almost any ‘how’ , but what if your ‘why’ is the rumination itself? That is the catastrophist’s trap– every mistake confirms a predetermined ruin, so you stop distinguishing between right action and wrong motive.
Or,
We live in a universe that is purposeless and chaotic, do we choose everything or it’s all inevitable? you tell me to be optimistic, when im trapped in this cage of steel as i try to break free my hands bleed. Then I sit back and yearn to find freedom and peace.
A lost kid looks around. He doesn’t discover a path, but a lexicon of lack. He learns the word ‘potential’, not as a promise, but as a weight. He sees care parsed out in conditional clauses: if your grades improve, when you start trying. Freedom is a word reserved for brochures and graduation speeches, a destination forever receding.
The coffee is cold again.I have been sitting here for a while taking a sip of a coffee and cold drink at the same time.I mean one after another.I have been staring at the frizzy drink and watching each bubble pop one by one.And new bubbles coming up from the bottom, like feelings. Like the way my father Disappointment rearranged itself into my spine.They asked me what I want to study, as if the wanting is the point, As if I haven’t spent 17 years Absorbing the whole world like a bruise, as if I choose this Permeability.Yet if I had an option, I would have choose this life, This me.
But the thing is what nobody tells you about.
Feeling too much isn’t a gift, it’s a curse. When you have the power to change the unjust, it’s a methodology, when you absorb the emotional state of others, like weather, you begin to understand something vital.That the self is a fiction. Where do I end and you begin?at the skin?.The body?.That’s naive
Descartes Was wrong.I feel therefore you are therefore we are therefore the bounding between us is a political construct designed to make you believe you are suffering Is yours alone.
the woman sitting beside the road Sitting there, all helpless people move.Over by one walk past her, she Maybe has no other choice.Then to just beg, beg People for help for money. You can get a 5000k bag but can’t give her 10 rupees. How absurd is that? I wonder how she feels. I remember the barefoot kids running around.At the streets with a big bright smile. Asking people for money. isn’t education Everyone’s right?. Then why is the government silent?When the whole population, I mean half of the country is illiterate, how will they choose a bright leader in the name of religion and basic needs? Uh, the government is leeching onto the people of their country instead of educating them. Democracy is for the educated folks only. A person who isn’t just educated.Who is emotionally mature and has knowledge will choose the right leader for themselves,
How will a country fight for peace when they are the one oppressed by the government?
I have a point. If you grow up learning that love arrives with chaos attached, chaos becomes the precondition for intimacy, you learn to read. Read silence, patterns, cues, behavior of people. You learn to perform your pain because performance was the only thing that got a response. You finally sell your pride and ego because you get fluent in language, in the language of crisis, yet you find a space where you are calm. They call it borderline. They call it maladaptive.
They call it many things. I call it I learned to breathe Underwater, before I learned to breathe in air. This generation, my generation, we are not lazy, we are not entitled. We are the children of collapse, and collapse requires a different kind of survival. We are handed a planet that is burning and that is burning And we are told to be passionate about internship, We watched our parents work themselves into emptiness and we are supposed to believe the grind is noble? We have infinite information and rare wisdom. We know what awaits us in the future, yet still they want us to get into the boat of optimism. It is any wonder. Is it any wonder we scroll. Is it any wonder we disassociate? The phone is not an addiction, the escape from reality is an addiction. The phone is and was made to make you numb. But if you still care, that means you’re not affected .
Follow your intuition. Just for once try to take that train. Don’t miss it because you are scared to leave, being neutral is never a good option. I read, and I read highlighting passages from the Communist Manifesto and wonder what it would feel like to believe in something that big, To surrender the self to the collective, to stop being this exhausted ‘I’ and become a ‘we’. But revolution requires hope, and hope requires future, and future is the thing I can’t quite picture. Not for myself, not for anyone. I exist in a permanent present tense. Every feeling is immediate and absolute, every ending final and beginning desperate. The pages accumulate Notebooks full of thoughts that don’t connect. Observation that doesn’t resolve questions That don’t find the answer. I write because speaking requires an audience and audience requires trust and trust requires a future and you see how it goes. Writing requires nothing. Writing is making people think you are not good at articulating. It’s frustrating to the point you eat a piece of sweet chocolate and take a sip of bitter coffee afterwards to feel better, even if it gives you jitters. So you write and write. You pour your thoughts into this piece of paper, thinking about the tree they cut down to make this notebook. Writing is thinking made permanent, thinking made into a thing. I can hold and say this happened. I existed in the moment.
They tell me I’m too intense. They tell me to relax, to lighten up, to just be a teenager. As if being a teenager isn’t precisely this. And the first time you realize the world is broken. And the first time you realize you are expected to fix it. And the first time you realize you cannot. So you just lay on the ground under the sky, watching the stars. To be a teenager is to be almost. Almost adult, almost capable, almost ready.Almost seen to exist in the space between who you were and who you will become. Which is to say, to exist nowhere. To be a teenager and feel everything is to be a wound that hasn’t decided whether to scare or bleed forever. To be 16 and think constantly is to build a prison of Your own promises.To be 13 and revolutionary is to want to burn The prison down. Break the shackles while you’re still inside it.
The coffee is gone, so is the chocolate. The height is deep. I will wake up tomorrow and do this again. I feel too much. Blue, red, grey, green, purple and rainbow and gay. Think too much, want too much, feel too much. The patterns will repeat.Thoughts will spiral, the hope will flicker and sometimes die. But I will write it down. I will leave evidence. I will make my thing into a record, my feeling into a document, and impossible teenage existence into something that persist beyond the movement of its thing.Because maybe that’s the only revolution left to insist, against all evidence, that it matters, to notice, that it matters, to feel that it matters, to think that a girl with a notebook and a mind. That won’t stop, and a heart that won’t harden is not a problem to be solved.
