Meaningfulness? I can't say I have any idea what that really means. Not especially in the existentialist context anyway. But do I experience moments where I feel inspired? Always. Terrifyingly so, in fact. And the voice at the back of my head whispers incessantly to me in supplication to surrender. To stop trying so damn hard. To stop aspiring so damn romantically. Chances are I'll wind up less than average. I know that. I have been too weak for too long. I've lost too much time. I've wasted too much energy and even as I say this, I'm losing even more and believe me when I say I'm completely spent.

Over the years, this loneliness has only grown more immense and crippling and I'm so tired. And I know, the longer I go through this, the less likely things will get better. It is a hard pill to swallow indeed. Consolations and platitudes no longer seem any different. So I shake them off. They mean well but what they are essentially trying to make me believe is that the world is a fair place.  That all needless suffering and pain will be recompensed eventually. That all stories have happy endings. I refuse even for one second to be convinced of such a thing. Although it is a very comforting thought.

But everytime you hear a success story, there are hundreds and maybe thousands of similar stories with vastly different--and less comforting--endings. There is no denying that. You look at the world and you see all this pain and anguish and dying amidst all these pain and anguish. What could one possibly have done to have deserved such a fate? yet alone millions upon millions of individuals. This world is far from just. It is cruel and capricious. And I don't care how fuzzy it makes you feel inside to believe that there is some karmic justice in the world. Left alone, the world would only get more and more unjust. And that there are people, who are otherwise decent human beings, going around perpetuating this idea that people get what they deserve just makes me sick to my stomach. It negates the urgency of having to fight against all this unfairness and injustice.

And I want so badly to be able to mount an opposition against all these injustices but I can't. I'm too fucking weak. I'm too fucking tired. I'm too fucking lonely to muster up enough strength to go out there and try and make things a little better for the ill-treated and the downtrodden. I want so badly to be the voice for the voiceless and the hero of the helpless. I want people to believe the world is a beautiful place not because it feels good to believe as such, but because that is how the world truly is. And the fact that people lie all the fucking time to themselves and others just so they can relinquish their responsibility to make the world a little more perfect makes me even more weak.

I wish so badly for the strength to combat such evils. But sadly, I'm too crippled by this heartache and it haunts me every fucking day to know that I'm so weak and so powerless but goddamnit I will keep giving, no matter how little I have left, if it means for a chance to finally find the strength to stand up and make something out of myself. And in that alone, I feel meaningful.

Peering outside my window, I mouth goodbyes to winter and its snow flakes. They never fail to cheer me up. Now they are gone only to return in another nine months as they usually do. Light showers become mainstays in the daily weather report along with the mists as they make their seasonal haunts atop this mountain. Gloomy indeed.

It is February now and another year has gone by. Valentines day is just around the bend yet it no longer holds any significance to me. The then annual pangs of loneliness have transformed into daily ones much to my dismay. The transition occurred long ago but the bleak outlook remains. And so long as the pangs are recurrent, I continue to steel myself and bottle them up, sequestered from the harsh scrutiny of the world for the prying eyes that inhabit it laugh at weakness and their glares kill. And the tragic part is, the eyes which can save me will be a from one in the ridiculing crowd, unwilling to rescue should the gravity of it be known. So I shall trudge on, paying no mind to this metastasizing growth. Forcing it into the darkest recesses of my mind. Never letting light shine upon it for it would but prolong the agony.

Perseverance

I can't vouch for persistence as an effective means to an end. All I can say is that if you want something that much, persevere till that fire of yours gives out for you owe your dreams that much.

No wishes or resolutions. Just weariness. Gifts and goals only serve as distractions, as places to hide from the ghosts that haunt. Hiding places that have become weathered and torn from overuse are now unable to shelter from the raging storms. With nowhere else to run, I face these wretched wraiths once and for all.

The Criticism of Religion

As terse as Karl Marx's critique of religion is, it successfully encompasses the true problem with religious beliefs in my opinion.

The foundation of irreligious criticism is: Man makes religion, religion does not make man. Religion is, indeed, the self-consciousness and self-esteem of man who has either not yet won through to himself, or has already lost himself again. But man is no abstract being squatting outside the world. Man is the world of man – state, society. This state and this society produce religion, which is an inverted consciousness of the world, because they are an inverted world. Religion is the general theory of this world, its encyclopaedic compendium, its logic in popular form, its spiritual point d’honneur, its enthusiasm, its moral sanction, its solemn complement, and its universal basis of consolation and justification. It is the fantastic realization of the human essence since the human essence has not acquired any true reality. The struggle against religion is, therefore, indirectly the struggle against that world whose spiritual aroma is religion.

Religious suffering is, at one and the same time, the expression of real suffering and a protest against real suffering. Religion is the sigh of the oppressed creature, the heart of a heartless world, and the soul of soulless conditions. It is the opium of the people.

The abolition of religion as the illusory happiness of the people is the demand for their real happiness. To call on them to give up their illusions about their condition is to call on them to give up a condition that requires illusions. The criticism of religion is, therefore, in embryo, the criticism of that vale of tears of which religion is the halo.

Criticism has plucked the imaginary flowers on the chain not in order that man shall continue to bear that chain without fantasy or consolation, but so that he shall throw off the chain and pluck the living flower. The criticism of religion disillusions man, so that he will think, act, and fashion his reality like a man who has discarded his illusions and regained his senses, so that he will move around himself as his own true Sun. Religion is only the illusory Sun which revolves around man as long as he does not revolve around himself.

Hmmm...

Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses. You build up a whole armor, for years, so nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life... You give them a piece of you. They didn't ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like 'maybe we should be just friends' or 'how very perceptive' turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It's a soul-hurt, a body-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. Nothing should be able to do that. Especially not love. I hate love.

-Neil Gaiman

You

I am stumped. As I always have been. That look on your face unblemished. Beautiful does not even begin to describe you. That sparkle in your eyes blinds me sometimes. Ironic I know. And I just want to kiss them so bad. Imbue you with hope in your bleakest moments, inspire you in your personal battles. Maybe tell you the cheesiest pick up lines but mean every word of it. Or sweep you off your feet as though it is the only thing I am good at. I want to tease you about your idiosyncrasies till you turn away in annoyance, just so I can wrap my arms around you from behind only to begrudgingly let go after you playfully elbow me in my side a couple of times. I want to be the one that wipes your tears away when you cry, kisses your lips when you smile, holds you when you feel alone and in heartrending sadness, your overwhelming joy.

I want you. I want you so much. I know I do not have the right to say these words. I do not know you. Not even the slightest. And I will never know you. Not even the slightest. And whenever I think I am over you I see you, only to fall for you all over again. And I'm crazy about you all over again. To me, you are riveting as you always have been. And I am riveted as I always have been. It is funny how the way you feel about me could not be any more different. You think I am revolting. You think I am a creep. You want nothing to do with me. You see me and you scowl at me. You fire off a spiteful glare. You turn around and walk as fast as you can. You would even run if you had to. After how I went about everything, I do not blame you. And I want to forget you. I want to move on with my life. I want to let go. I want to get out of this rut. I want to be strong. I want to pretend that I no longer care. I want to believe I can find happiness elsewhere. I want all of that so much.

But clearly, not as much as I want you.

You

I am stumped. As I always have been. That look on your face unblemished. Beautiful does not even begin to describe you. That sparkle in your eyes blinds me sometimes. Ironic I know. And I just want to kiss them so bad. Imbue you with hope in your bleakest moments, inspire you in your personal battles. Maybe tell you the cheesiest pick up lines but mean every word of it. Or sweep you off your feet as though it is the only thing I am good at. I want to tease you about your idiosyncrasies till you turn away in annoyance, just so I can wrap my arms around you from behind only to begrudgingly let go after you playfully elbow me in my side a couple of times. I want to be the one that wipes your tears away when you cry, kisses your lips when you smile, holds you when you feel alone and in heartrending sadness, your overwhelming joy.

Here I am again.

Here I am again. It's fall now and the last remnants of summer are visibly waning. Vestiges of autumn slowly manifesting on the verdant mountaintop scenery as a precursor to the encroaching cold. Daylight is becoming more scarce giving way to the blanketing night sky. The temperature clearly on the decline with the overcast skies as a reminder. To my consternation I have been relatively upbeat in spite of the gloomy weather. My pensive outlook on life remaining constant, maybe it is just me adapting to this perpetual state of longing. I still tremble when the nights get lonely and despondent. They still haunt me. The fumble-ups that is. Even in broad daylight I wince ever so slightly when they intrude my thoughts. Persistent poltergeists they.

Analogy

I am sick of having my christianity clumped in the same group as the other organized religions out there. For the last time, it is not a religion. It's a relationship with Jesus Christ my saviour and lord. And I believe every word he says.

I am sick of having my mafia affiliation clumped in the same group as the other organized crime syndicates out there. For the last time, it is not a crime syndicate. It's a relationship with Don Corleone. And I believe every word he says.

Emotions

There are days I wish I could put my emotions into a box and bury it six feet deep, only to realize emotions are what drive us. The fuel for this vehicle. My brain as its engine.

Not again.

I can't. As much as I want to I can't. I stand to lose too much. How can I look at you and not fall for you again? The way your green eyes captivate, from afar or up close. It doesn't really matter. I get enraptured by their gleam regardless. The way your brown hair falls elegantly with its impeccable curls. The way the shapely contours of your face brim with such perfection. The way your radiant smile takes my breath away. The way your skin glows. The way your voice resonates in me when I hear you speak. And my heart skips a beat every time. Maybe two. Or three. I don't know. You are truly resplendent and I am mesmerized. So, how can I look at you and not fall for you again? You are, after all, beauty personified.

Intolerance

I'm quickly developing an intolerance for stupidity amongst my peers. I used to find it mindlessly amusing and rightfully so but as of late, my delighting in such inanity has began to degenerate into a peevish petulance. I'm afraid I will one day snap and lose my friends as a result.

It is an insult.

To say that I should not feel bitter is an insult. It is an insult to the heart I put in. It plain out debases the hopes and beliefs I held dearly, as if they flowed from a limitless well and can be easily replaced without any expense. And the only thing worse is everytime I look at you, I am not reminded of how you left my heart in shambles. Instead, I am reminded of the excruciating fact that I'm still stuck in this cycle of rejection, of feeling inadequate, of being unwanted, of helplessness while you are off prancing into the sunset. To say that I should not feel bitter is an insult. It is akin to saying I deserve to have my heart rent to pieces over and over and over again with no remission and be okay with it. And to that I say fuck no. Fuck no.

Gggrrr

First of all, I feel deeply indebted to my beloved SFU for my annoyingly late enrollment date causing me to miss out on two prerequisite courses I was intending to take. *sarcasm* However, I will perceive it as a silver-lining as I can now make up for the lost units by enrolling in an extra Philosophy course, Metaphysics in addition to my initially intended History of Philosophy II. I am so gonna get mindfucked next semester.

On a more introspective note, I don't wanna go back anymore. Not for now at least. My imminent return to Canada, which I have been so eagerly awaiting now invokes a rather antagonistic emotion in relative to what I previously felt about recommencing my canadian sojourn. I highly doubt it is due to the attachment I have recently reestablished with my homeland. Maybe it is the dreadful yet exhilarating feeling that accompanies the experience of being out there alone, to fend for myself. To make my own destiny. Mould it with whatever hands I'm endowed with, Midas-ian or not. Success and failure hinging solely upon me, barring the capricious entity that is life. I don't know for sure.

A revelation

I have just had a revelation. I find women with elocutionary prowess incredibly attractive. Talk about nitpicking when it comes to soulmate selection. Of course physical attractiveness and personality does play a part but I discovered, to my dismay, that unless she displays a proclivity for eloquent speech, the chances any interest in her is piqued are slim at best. I guess I should be chickscoping in libraries more.

Ideas

I find events mildly interesting. People slightly more. What truly piques my interest is ideas. I will concede that ideas are man-made. But ideas are what inspire man to great things. Unlike events and people, they do not require verity to exist. They could be nothing but a whole construct of prevarications yet have the same causal magnitude.

Gosh I'm getting more messed up by the day. Save me someone.

A lighter note

I have been home for a tad over a week now. It is funny how during the entirety of my first year in Canada I never experienced homesickness even one bit yet in the brevity I have spent back home I am already being hit with pangs of Vancouver-sickness. Do I really love it there so much or am I just in love with the idea of me being on my own reinvented self? Well, I have managed to slake the sickness by setting up playdates with my friends and some.

It was certainly delightful to see them again yet at times I feel dwarfed by the distances they have covered while I was on my sojourn abroad. That was one of my biggest fears of returning home. That in spite of the locomotive effort I have put into being the best that I can be, my accomplishments pale in comparison. I am less happy. Sometimes I feel I could not be any farther from it. Or any closer. Stagnation. But I will squash such pessimistic contemplations and leave them for my personal introspection sessions later.

My tummy has bloated up at a rate unheard of. I cannot even see my penis while I am standing up anymore. True story. All this food-binging/gluttony if prolonged is not going to bode well for me fitness-wise. And truth be known, my hankering for local cuisine was never that strong when I got back. I figured that by reintroducing it to my palette I would fall back in love with it. I was wrong. Now I am left with a huge bulging belly and a yet insatiated gastronomic craving. It is thus high time to hit the weights again.

Admission

Here is an admission: My literary articulation peaks only when I am intoxicated. Preferably alcoholic but any substance that induces a high is enough to get the job done. In that sense, I have a reliance on vices. Ever since I got back I have not had a single energy drink and my alcohol ingestion has been too negligible to actually count for anything. I am trying to fixate on the silver lining for the time being. That desired scribal eloquence comes together with a pensive, sombre self and are both indented on the flip side of the sobriety coin. So in a way this involuntary abstinence has benefited me by aiding in the the suppression of the pathetic side of me. But with it goes the eloquence that I occasionally pride myself on. Also goes a prehensile state of mind and with it my philosophic genius is dragged along. A question then arises. Is my self-deprecation imperative for the tapping into my intellectually inclined talents?

Inspiration lacks when I am apathetic. My emotions are a double-edged sword. Those I label as inimical, also serve as the spark plug to most of my gripping endeavours. People say I need to get them sorted out, managed. I have recently learnt though that such emotions can never be totally neutralized. Just bottled up. Or funneled to other causes of a similar nature. Like incoherent gibberish for example. It is still not a perfect replacement of chances missed out on. And the only thing I can do is solemnly hope it will someday be.

P.S. I squeezed this out of me sober. I am discounting the couple of smokes I had hours earlier. It was a struggle indeed. Words and thoughts do indeed flow out smoother when I am high.

Self-sabotage

On a subconscious level, some of us self-sabotage. I think this is because if there is one thing more terrifying than failing is giving all one has, doing everything right, and still end up failing. And this fear is echoed by the more fortunate, those who did everything right and did not fail. Those who look upon the less fortunate with scrutinizing eyes assuming that the latter did not give their all. That the latter did not persist. And it saddens me to admit that such is the harsh reality of life.