Tag: fuckit

  • Idiot Privilege

    In the almost two weeks that I stayed away from Tumblr, the one recurring thought that plagued me was the level of victimisation and victim-consciousness that seems to pervade most contentious debates. The problem with aggressive victims though is that they’re so defensive in their bid to appear in control, that they fail to see how obtuse they often are in being able to grasp another perspective. 

    Apparently, suggesting that the victim-conscious state of mind even exists is a neo-liberalism attempt at some or other bullshit to subjugate a people blah blah blah (or so I’ve been told in very colourful language, I might add). Every single situation I’ve ever encountered in life where a conflict of ideas or principles presented themselves resulted in one party being a victim and the other a master. The only way you can possibly part as equals while holding opposing views is if both parties have the maturity to agree to disagree after presenting rational arguments to substantiate their views.

    Similarly, with emotions, you’re either a victim or a master of your emotions. Victims are prone to tantrums, angry outbursts, mood swings and defeatist behaviour, among many other similarly destructive traits, while those that even attempt to master their state are by nature optimistic, albeit morbidly so at times, and proactive. This is a gross over simplification of this issue, but my point is simple. Every single troll out there is a moron who has a severely dented ego and therefore needs to reaffirm their worth through slamming someone else. It’s only in their assumed ability to abuse someone else that they find any self-worth.

    And so I coined the phrase that titles this post. Idiot privilege. It’s a privilege earned by idiots who believe that inflexibility and indoctrination through fear and reprisal is the only way to win an argument or further a cause based on the regurgitation of quotes and philosophies of scholars and historians and war heroes that probably wouldn’t wish to be in the same room as them because of the stench of their ignorance. Unfortunately it’s this very same type of behaviour that sways the masses, which is why trolls and morons will always have groupies, while those attempting to sincerely unravel the complexity of life and the human psyche will remain flabbergasted at the audacity of those that know not.

  • Frustration is that feeling you get when you see idiots waging arguments about issues that are distorted by their anger and inbred prejudices and sincerely wanting to correct them, but knowing that any attempt at reasonable discourse will fall on selectively deaf ears inviting nothing but venomous drivel in return. 　

  • Brain Dump

    My mind is a mess. Articulating even the most simple thoughts are proving to be a challenge. There’s a haziness in my thought processes that feels angst-y and unnatural. I hate almost every post I write these days and I feel like a superficial moron seeking attention more often than not. For the first time ever I had to remind myself that this is my blog and not a public bulletin board.

    This is supposed to be my space to rant and rave and ramble without apology yet recently I’ve been addicted to affirmation. As is the case with affirmation, it’s rarely there when sought after. I despise this state of mind that tends towards attention-seeking behaviour while simultaneously feeling disgusted at the thought of writing for an audience. I feel agitated and irritated and unnatural in my space. I feel like something is amiss. 

    There’s a consistent dis-ease within me that is exacerbated the moment I step into the house after a light hearted day at the office. Writing this all down has required constant conscious effort to dismiss the thoughts of who would read what into what I’m saying. I cannot afford to care. If I do, it will add to the weight of self-imposed responsibility that claws at my conscience every waking hour in my quest to constantly consider the needs of others before my own. I tire me out and from that there appears to be no…repose. 

  • I just deleted about 30 posts from my blog. Many of them left me feeling self-indulgent and some were associated with a plagiarist that I was once again naive enough to trust. I loved some of the content, but I couldn’t in good conscience keep it published on my blog knowing that it was part of an elaborate scheme of deception, regardless of the motivation.

    Betrayal is my weakness. More accurately, being betrayed is what deflates me more than any other experience in the world. I sometimes despise my old school values. It places a burden on me akin to juggling hot coals in my hands. It forces me to accept the wickedness in others, and constantly challenges me to suppress my ego in my efforts to accept and forgive, so that I can gather my strength to move on again.

    I sometimes feel a strong desire to lash out and discard decorum in my efforts to expose the bullshit of the callous players that toy with the emotions and compassion of others. I never do, because I’m painfully aware of the reality that this world celebrates aggressors and tyrants and humiliates victims.

    I needed to recalibrate my blog so that it is a reflection of me, and not of what I would like others to see in me. This is my ventlet to criticise the world for its bullshit and double standards. I smile sadly at the thought of those that find reason to lie about losing a loved one in order to gain attention, juxtaposed with the news that six family members died in a car crash under excessively tragic circumstances.

    Society has a low self-esteem, and it’s reflected in the actions of the weakest amongst us. The attention-seekers, of which there is no scarcity, often succumb to self-pity and self-loathing, then express such emotions to a public audience, who inevitably pour out their affections in the hope of raising the spirits of one they identify with so easily, all the while dismissing the nagging realisation that they feel a sense of purpose only when they’re extending a hand to one they see as lesser than themselves. It’s easier to earn significance in that manner rather than to establish your worth through selfless fulfilment of your duty to society.

    We have more consumers than we have contributors to the collective wholesomeness of society. The contributors are fighting the debilitating symptoms of compassion fatigue, while the consumers do nothing but cry foul and wait impatiently for their lot to be improved by someone else.

  • It’s a noisy night again. Despite the stillness and the silence, there’s constant crescendos of clutter raging in my head. But I do not wish to release them tonight. Perhaps it’s time they were allowed to rage and fester until they finally assumed a form of their own so that the tangibility of it might yield something more than just the taunts of days gone by.

  • I’m losing myself

    Acceptance. I’m pretty much screwed without it. No amount of affirmation, gratitude or inclusion will ever fill the gaping hole left by not being accepted for who I really am. Needing to pander to the dictates of others, or suppress my true nature from fear of ridicule leaves me wanting for life. I could easily be Charlie Chaplin or Jim Carrie if I felt confident enough to show my silly side. It’s often this silly side that makes me feel most human.

    I have an underlying need on occasion to abandon decorum amongst those that I trust will not use that moment of surrender as a yardstick against which to measure me. Moments like that would make me feel so much more wholesome. But I do not see any that I can trust in this way any longer.

    It’s not possible to live a life of perpetual pompous parades of good etiquette or restrained manners every moment of my life. Such unnatural behaviour has turned me into the jaded bitter old man that I am. Realising the need for social order on one hand, but also knowing that if unrestrained I will probably be shunned. I am not as contradictory or hypocritical as I may sound right now. This surrender I desire is not a surrender of principles or ethics, nor morals or discipline. It’s simply a surrender of control and restraint in being able to express myself in the most natural and colourful way I am capable of. With dignity of course. Always with dignity.

    I used to reduce many to stuttering, blubbering, gyrating, tearing, helpless bundles of laughter because of my antics and my humour, but I have no inclination nor motivation to express that side of me any more. I have no inclination for a life fully lived. The romantic notions I write about are lost concepts to my present being. Distant memories of a youth never lived. I am faced with a reality that spits in the face of my aspirations, and just saying that literally conjures up images in my head of venomous interactions of previous lives.

    I am a recluse under construction. I do not fit in, nor do I aspire to any more. I despise the erosion of sincerity that I witness around me, and I refuse to play any part in it. I am not socially anxious, nor inept. Nor do I have a mental illness or disorder that predisposes me to this behaviour. My only shortcoming is that I expect more than people are willing to expose of themselves. Our embellished facades shall be protected to our very last breath. And I will protrude like a hernia against the six pack of a society that is obsessed with image but lacks substance.

  • Happy Damned Birthday

    Birthdays have always been an ominous occasion for me. I can never find a reason to celebrate because of the stark reminders carried by such a milestone. I’m certainly a glass-half-empty kind of person when it comes to this, probably because my glass full of life just got emptier at the passing of yet another year.

    I’ve been obsessed with this image of a long curve or arc that symbolises time stretching inversely across the horizon with only the very tip of its apex brushing the soil. And that single moment of its brushing represents my entire lifetime in the context of the universe, making me realise exactly how insignificant my existence really is.

    And this is not even close to my birthday, which incidentally has ceased to hold any significance for me, be it joyous or otherwise. It really has faded into just another day, because it has never changed the condition of my life in any way except to serve as a reminder that I’m supposed to take a moment to benchmark my life against others that have grovelled for as long as I have.

    We’re all beggars. Some just more dignified than others. Who is not begging for happiness or contentment, wealth or comfort, companionship and fame? At our weaker moments we morbidly acknowledge this, but when the memory of pain subsides, such realisations are discarded in favour of feelings of false elation. Forgetfulness is probably our greatest gift and mercy. Imagine the pain of a life that bore the intensity of the memories of every moment of distress or destitution? 

    Oh yes, birthdays…I hate those. It’s supposed to signify the passing of another year, when in fact it’s just the passing of yet another day. Just another day, with more significance attached to it than anyone could ever justify. How I despise the feeble-minded that define themselves by such whimsical milestones!

  • Untethered

    For me, loving another is loving the essence of their flaws and seeing the defective beauty in it as the most attractive of their charms. Finding their deepest imperfections to be perfectly imperfect. Seeing their weaknesses counter-balanced with my strengths, and their strengths complementary to my own, for I have no weaknesses when embraced by one I love. Only strength. An untethered horse is an unloved horse. It’s in being needed that I flourish. Not a neediness of responsibility, but one of desire. The greatest act to ravage the soul of a man is the denial of closure. Nothing destroys more than not knowing why.