Outbursts of a Privileged White Man: Thoughts of an Egotistical Fool

By Baethan Balor

"The reader is a fool."

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 28, 2018
• ISBN: 9781532057632

Baethan Balor

An ongoing testament to the human condition, Baethan Balor’s experience and rendition of love through the practice and documentation of his unique metaethical philosophy offers a frontiersman’s perspective into the reasons for why people love each other, the resulting suffering, and the societal implications on a global scale.

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Copyright © 2018 .

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-5762-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-5763-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018911265

iUniverse rev. date: 09/27/2018

Contents

Dedication

Epigraph

Acknowledgement

Prologue

November

December

January

February

March

April

May

June

July

August

September

October

November

Epilogue

Dedication

Dedicated to my Ego, Self, and I.

Epigraph

I

All thoughts, all creeds, all dreams are true,

All visions wild and strange;

Man is the measure of all truth

Unto himself. All truth is change:

All men do walk in sleep, and all

Have faith in that they dream:

For all things are as they seem to all,

And all things flow like a stream.

II

There is no rest, no calm, no pause,

Nor good nor ill, nor light nor shade,

Nor essence nor eternal laws:

For nothing is, but all is made,

But if I dream that all these are,

They are to me for that I dream;

For all things are as they seem to all,

And all things flow like a stream.

- Lord Tennyson

Acknowledgement

Entities written of are accounted to the best of my truth. Errors of syntax and grammar are necessities. I thank existence for my ability to capture the mundane senses of the human being through word.

Prologue

An intoxicated postal worker and a whorish waitress laid together to copulate on a firm bed inside of a small house located in suburban America. Success is met in the venture.

Nine months later, a filth-laden twelve pound infant erupts from the womb afflicted with desires. The infant satisfies aforementioned desires through the method of oral consumption, anal/penile expulsions, sexual intercourse, and grows to become a man; this man endures reality, develops a character, experiences a spectrum of human emotion, and decides to write about it.

-Baethan Balor

NOVEMBER

November, 20th 2016

Journals are self-indulgent.

Today is my 25th birthday.

I’m a janitor at a grocery store and I live with my father.

I maintain no friendships by choice.

I identify as a writer, an ascetic, a fool, a sociopath, a rogue, a romantic, and a charlatan; most of all, a fool. Life is a meaningless game. There is little fulfillment in the role of a fool; everyone is a fool in this game; our egos restrict us from contentment.

The issues of society are a tired travesty. I am an outcast by nature, attitude, and demeanor. All is futile in the end—an over branching nihilist approach towards all is my current neurosis. I yearn for a good woman to share my life with though I’m too selfish to commit. A wretch—by society’s standards; I condemn the establishment to an allegorical hell—words spoken ad nauseam by the commoner pleb; I’m no exception.

I’m an idiot, a presumptuous buffoon. The entire concept and execution of this document is the ego. We’re all predisposed to be self-centered cretins who thrive off the validation and adoration of our species. Social creatures—for utter shame; cooperation for the sake of mock peace; an abominable, invasive, parasitic primate deviation. Hedonism is our basic faculty we strive to overcome in attempt to understand and harness the world—our reality. What is ‘reality’?

Why—do we care?

November, 21st 2016

My belief of being sociopathic is nullified after a read of Oswald Spengler’s, The Decline of the West. I’ve reasoned that I’m stoical, to go by any description. My condition is shameful; I long for companionship yet find greater solace in the comfort of my mind, detached and liberated from the emotional burden of ‘healthy’ relationships, indifferent of future and past occurrences associated with my fellow man.

The words flow while I sit and type out of a free, unrestrained motive; liberated by the notion of this document ever strewn underneath an editor’s eyes; emancipated from judgment of my peers and humanity—though in ‘reality’, who would care? Who would dedicate time to read an excerpt of a day in the life of a plebeian blip? All this writing—created now, in this act, will one day cease to exist in the infinite cycles of our state of being.

November, 23rd 2016;

I experienced a disturbing dream:

A brown-haired nameless girl and I mutilated a dog; the environment eludes my recollection, though I recall being amongst ruins of a desecrated city, deserted and barren.

The dog exhibited amiability throughout the duration of the depraved torture. Wounds clotted with magical haste, the manner expected of a dream. We sliced out the dog’s eyes, bludgeoned the skull, yet the creature persisted. The entire upper portion of the skull: the brain, eyes, nose, etc.—destroyed; a mangled jaw gaped open to breathe. The girl and I clasped our hands over the dog’s mouth and observed erratic convulsions. On the verge of the dog’s death, we removed our hands and allowed the beast to breathe—to endure more torture. The girl snickered, her brown eyes furrowed by passion.

I awoke.

DECEMBER

December, 14th 2016

My father gifted me a bottle of absinthe: an early Christmas present. He figured I needed the tonic due to my ‘existential struggle’. A curious aid, I reckon; alcohol elicits depression, though with a depressed, downtrodden state of mind, I am enticed to spiral further downward and may indulge in a glass tomorrow before work.

Ten hours at a grocery store awaits me—a nightcap of cleaning mold-encrusted dairy shelves. The life of a modern day peasant becomes me.

A sip of absinthe; Bach’s Aus der Tiefen resonates from a sound bar; frankincense burns under a low light. What more could a modern peasant ask for, yet I find myself overcome with want—desire.

I believe I am schizotypal. My only authentic pleasure is that of music, food, the senses—a primal being, a monkey. A selfish, implausible, atypical primate vying to ease the burden of existence through substance. I avoid all associations with women as a means of self-preservation in favor of the delugement of the inner mechanisms of the mind. I stumble across occasions where I may form sexual relations with a plethora of women, all of them eager to ‘get to know me’—to spend all my money—the little I have, and to consume all my time! A relationship is work, and work for what?—to acquire the satisfaction of being wanted, to fulfill the role of my species, to propagate, proliferate, populate, to pretend the world needs the continuation of my gene. Driven by selfish desires—all of us.

Alcohol in my bloodstream, feverous heart palpitations, the substance courses through my veins and fuels my brain with thoughts; compelled to hammer my keyboard with powered strikes, words fail to express the lackadaisical vindication of my convictions.

I’ve had enough of this anyway.

December, 25th 2016

Christmas morning—capitalism incarnate, the day that validates the atrocious consumeristic habits of the majority of Americans. Yet—why care? The holiday is based in gratitude, love, and family.

Everyone except Jesus receives a present on Christmas. Jesus died for our sins—so buy a new iPhone at the low-low cost of only $799.95 before taxes—and one day shipping if you’re an impatient imbecile—no doubt.

Jesus died for our sins. Give a gift to everyone you know and spend all your money on luxury. By the way, Santa sees you when you’re sleeping, and he knows when you’re awake. So marry—quick—before it’s too late! Find yourself a ‘hunny’ and snuggle close. He/she will make you feel pleasant and validate your miserable existence. "Baby, it’s cold outside," as the song goes. Merry Christmas! And a happy New Year! Jolly tidings to all, and to all a wonderful Christmas morning!

Glorious ramblings of a positive soul; how fun it is to muse the words in this useless document. It’s all make-believe! We aren’t really this way. The compassion of a human; a rare trait, exemplified, is beautiful.

Merry Christmas. I hope all murderers, arsonists, baby rapists, and torturers take a day off today; it would be a shame for them to work on Jesus’ birthday (It isn’t really Jesus’ birthday—oh well, remember the iPhone).

December, 27th 2016

My mother contacted me on three separate instances on Christmas day and I ignored each attempt.

I cried on my knees at the feet of my Grandmother in front of my entire extended family that I haven’t seen in over five years.

Life is desolate. I care enough for people to initiate conversations and present the gift of books to the few whom I resonate with. Beyond these pretentious deeds, all is empty—vacuous, a void that needs yearns to be filled by my own devices. I strive to write each morning and my efforts have ebbed out.

The process is difficult and depletes the mind’s resources. I fail to conjure a mental image into functional words for extended periods and suffer guilt about my lack of progress despite my knowledge in spirituality, theology, ‘self-mastery’—attuned with the self—the ego.

I bantered with a woman who works at the grocery store deli department in her mid thirties; pink hair, face and body covered in piercings, short, eccentric. I’ve been infatuated with her since my late teens/early twenties. After my experiences with the capabilities of vindictive women first-hand and being familiar with their dissimulative nature, my objurgation of her vile relationship with a man she has sustained for eight years satisfied my ego—for the moment.

This man—he signed life insurance in her name and agreed to marry her. This notion is noble standalone, however, part of their agreement is that he is prohibited from intercourse. Only platonic physical contact is allowed—miserable buffoon. The two consider themselves disjointed. I reckon her ‘lover’s’ countenance and physical condition—both deplorable, his mind spellbound by her superficial charm. I’m guilty of similar entrapment.

The conversation started with her prideful galavant around the grocery store deli department where she denounced men for their oppressive ways. Pre-engaged with customers, she listed her rights and the rights of ‘colored’ people. Due to lack of sense and a jaded perspective, I said, Why not discuss something more stimulating and viable to our current conditions, such as philosophy or theology?—anything but the mind numbing matters of politics to which we are all horribly misinformed about anyway.

This statement lit a metaphorical fire underneath her; she sauntered, annoyed and confused with my statement of an opinion that undermined her own for the first time in our interactions with each other over the course of six years.

Her histrionic outcries continued; I record the closure if I ever return to read this ego-inflating document:

I said, You must enjoy all your rights and a male consort orbiting you, submitting himself to you and offering all his resources to you with no cost at your end.

She said, Does my relationship with Francis bother you—is that why you’re being so rude?

I waltzed over to her position at the deli slicer and said, He is a groveling worm—he-

That’s rude Baethan! Her face twisted into a feminine pout—a visage no doubt employed against the better judgment of the many men in her life. That’s really rude to say.

He worships you and you string him along.

That’s rude.

I said, "It is not rude," and turned to push two carts to the receiving room; one empty, the other filled with a small heap of trash.

December, 31st 2016

New Year’s Eve—the morning, with a coconut oil-laced coffee, an apple, plain greek yogurt, blueberries and a teaspoon of honey mixed in. The usual routine.

I’ve been considering, why not write in this journal everyday and sell it to idiots? The Faustian implications of my thoughts are debased; it’s all in the mind of what one makes of an idea or circumstance.

I experience ‘fun’ with the establishment of these entries; a flow of water down a steep cliff-face. Everyone has an opinion; put a price on it. A remarkable, horrendous idea—yet I imagine there would be some who would buy a journal…

I don’t love my mother.

I’m selfish. Life is survival. I derive no satisfaction in the maintenance of relationships. I’ve sustained two friends at work; two men, virtuous and debauched in equal measure of character. In this way we get along. I look forward to the summer and our adventures we have planned in our fantastical discourses. To be out with your fellow man in the wilds, to experience nature with brothers whom you may place your trust in—that is life. Though sex is the endgame, I abhor the act.

My sexual drive has plummeted; I ignore all women younger than fifty years of age. I’m in the prime of my life, healthier than ever before, mental clarity, satisfactory job, and time to do with as I please. Why women? All accumulated knowledge, wisdom, wealth, status—all for women in the end; that is what men’s biological disposition drives us to acquire; I protest against this primal instinct to the detriment of my physiology.

I think again—to the idea of some fool buying this at a low price, the many other fools who would follow suit, and the most foolish among them would make their complaints known for my opinions expressed herein. Fools who would fuel the fire they seek to squelch!

Writing is easy when unaffected, from thought to word. To write as one speaks is the truest form of communication; the art. That’s what grammar is for, to express in the keenest way possible, the most true and base relation of one’s thoughts delivered in word. With a euphoric undercurrent derived from my concentrated spirit, I write this now—for the human design is remarkable! When one scans these words, they understand, and the information, however trite and baseless it may be—one understands. It fills me with a sense of wonder that our species is capable of excellent feats. The human cooperative element is a marvel. Our ability to contemplate our own existence is hell and heaven in itself, simultaneous joy and pain; what would we be without the ability to do so: Mere monkeys, engrossed with fucking—eating—shitting—killing. Consumption—consummation of all, the human way, guided by intellect and selfish motives.

I asked several employees at the grocery store this question: What do you make of the statement?: All selfless acts are intrinsically selfish. The answers allotted painted a clear picture for me the beliefs of the individuals in question. There are two types of people in this regard. The first being the kind who believes in the greater good of humanity, the second being the kind who does not. This distinction is simple, and of course—if there exists those who believe in something, there are others who will always believe the diametric paradigm.

People have grown on me in this way, to probe the minds of those around me, to ask personal questions, subjective to the core; the insights of the older men and women I have interacted with have illuminated one true fact about life: It ends.

"Life is beautiful. Really, it is. Without it, you’d be dead."

-Harmony Korine’s ‘Gummo’

I have mommy issues. We are all a product of our environment, upbringing, genetics, and culture. How you cope is what matters. In my case, writing is the cure for life, and all volatile substances that alter our sensory perceptions. I think, therefore I am or, Cogito ergo sum written by Descartes, remains to me, as the single most inspired statement ever thought—a generalized sentiment to the conception of being. The sense of being, in essence, is to suffer. Whether one believes in the intrinsic good nature of humankind or the selfish propulsion of our egos, there are these two facets of our character that emerge:

One asks, Why?

The other, How?

Both of these inquiries are valid. Each are fundamentals for survival, the products of intelligence, the two primal thoughts that incite forward action.

The one who asks, Why? is inclined to apply thought to art; the one who asks, How? to business.

As in, Why—am I here? Why—do I exist? This leads to a forlorn expression, a desire to showcase the wonder and mystery of life in any form, from a weathered depiction of mammoths engraved on a cavern wall to marble-laid pyramids, all art is symbolism on a macro scale for the question: Why?

In, How—did this happen? How—do I improve my condition? You find the indifferent one who forgoes care of why one is in the circumstances one finds themselves. The design is how to overcome this game of life. One knows a physical body that experiences both pain and pleasure; senses which enable one to observe reality; one is pitted against an environment of consummation; the act of life is the process of death.

The artist and businessman alike are meritable. There are the crudest forms of both, the finer forms, variations based on social class and—yet again, a product of environment—of nature, the ‘working order’. A cyclic pattern in constant rhythm. The key to the formation of an integral unity with one’s own mind is to learn to wield the positives of both the mindsets of the men of ‘why’ and ‘how’ in order to utilize the insights of both pursuits in equilibrium. This world is a cruel place of abject violence and despicable acts of human depravity, the sort of which I find myself drawn to, a therapeutic attraction. To focus and educate oneself on the sufferings and pleasures of our species, one begins to unearth tragedies of climactic expression unbound through the human spirit. Great works of long dead poets and novelists of each generation—how I wish I could sit and shake the hands of these reanimated corpses and prattle over the weather. I’m sure I may encounter great minds each day and be unaware. How could one be aware of any great mind; thoughts are objects that require application in order to utilize their effectiveness.

JANUARY

January 1st, 2017

Another apple, another cup of coffee with coconut oil, another bowl of Greek yogurt with blueberries and a dapple of honey.

I find myself at a loss for words this morning. This is well by me. A healthy mind is a contented mind.

Never mind: I wonder as I finish my apple, how one who is obese to the point of morbidity would feel. Wretched and isolated in one’s own squalor, a basin of sweat beneath one’s copious flesh folds enmeshed—ingrown into the bedding where one is confined due to their own extreme mass. I believe I’d end my life if I allowed myself to decline to a state of unnatural fleshiness.

Miserable conditions of the body would destroy my psyche; to be immobile—what a pitiful shame: A parasitical existence. Who would ever want to associate with a blob of another being incapable of ordering their own chaos—I know—I know… One who satisfies tempers their ego through acts of selfless sacrifice; is this true sacrifice?: A laughable question—rather a statement.

I’ll see many examples of this specimen of ineffectual people today well on their way, or at this level of wretchedness; a mother with five children seated on a motorized shop-cart due to laziness—to exert one’s legs. No father in sight. A corpulent welfarist in the finest form of distinction.

She said, Excuse me, can you reach the Hostess double-stuffed donuts for me? and pointed to the second highest shelf in the bread aisle. Her distended buttocks hung over each side of the shop-cart, her hair pulled back into a ponytail; frayed ends jutted out from the unwashed heap of greasy brown tendrils. Her chin sagged low and settled on her rotund body—a literal sphere; a conglomerate of neglected human tissue; a construct of fat deposits.

I said, Yes, of course, smiled, and handed her the donuts.

January 2nd, 2017

I believe my latest work of fiction is a manifestation of my mommy issues; a therapeutic journey. The themes converge—based around the concept of ‘mother’. I write for the sake of myself: I am disappointed.

I sit in the dark before the sun has risen and wonder: Life—the premise is simple, to be alive is wonderful, yet when left to our own devices, we seek to eliminate the ineffable numbness through any sensory means available.

The notion of progress is foolish, the idea of anything is in vain, though this is the fickle material we find ourselves bound to. The inexorable flow of time sweeps all away; the slipstream of the human race—of all life, either drifts or thrashes with the tides. I remind myself that my world is my mind, my brain is my reality; the eye—a window to the scene. I’m a fleshy bag of meat which will one day die and be forgotten as all have and will be in due time. Time being a human concept—imagine an existence where the mind is unburdened with exact measurements of days and moments bygone, before the calendar, Stonehenge, and the acute calculation of celestial objects. Everything I write here has been said before and in far more eloquent ways. The beauty in the works of old—true art, beyond that which a peasant of limited experience could fathom. My mind—my environment, my brisk walk between home and grocery store—this is my life, self-chosen, ignorant.

Isolation; the bittersweet joy of the self.

Another coffee, apple, and yogurt with honey and blueberries. The ritual soothes.

The venomous words of my ex-girlfriend of four years typed and sent to me through a social media outlet in her final diatribe directed at me are forever etched into my memory, the last condemnation:

"You are going to be alone forever."

Vile, cruel, and classless.

What is regret? I may have learned the most from my experience with this woman. This particular condemnation irks me because I desire to be alone. In her endeavor to injure me, she twists my desire on its head. I question myself: What do I desire? A family perhaps—one day; that alone is reason enough for me to believe in my convictions. We are all alone. Born alone, we die alone. Human relationships are a fleck, ethereal—superficial in the manner that we establish relationships for selfish purposes. To pierce our nature—our animal, primal, biological drives, I find it all to be dreadful and disconcerting.

A bite of a honeydew apple after a sip of coffee. What more is there to life than the simple pleasures we all know and enjoy? Why do I bother to strive—to become, instead of being what I already am? Grand questions I know the answer to. My ambitions drives me to fulfill this inner void, this human condition.

How pointless this all is, to sit and write about the mundane—of life, as life is mundane in every moment, yet every moment is eternal bliss if you allow it to be.

9:43 AM

I’ve decided to add time stamps for my own delight to reflect on. I find it distasteful that I want to write in this journal. Stated in my first entry: Journals are self indulgent. In that regard, is this really how I wish to dedicate my time? The answer that I’m content with is, Yes.

A cold shower is the meaning of life. A cold shower is suffering. A cold shower is awakening.

Eat, drink, piss, shit, meditate. Think.

As I showered I thought of all the fools who would dedicate time to read this journal in its entirety once I have typed away countless words for no reason other than disillusionment, indifference, and apathy. What insights could one hope to ascertain from a fool? Fools seeking wisdom of a fool is all life is. Nobody knows the truth; that is wonderful. I love how vague and obscure our reality is. The sciences of all branches of life, in policies, political and theological—mathematical—all of these ideologies are just that—ideas. Thoughts, objects, malleable and degradable, subject to entropy.

The written word is beautiful. Look at it. See it? And—you understand it—my thoughts are now yours. I have given you my object of thought, and I hope that I, and whoever else reads this in the future by some stroke of chance will enjoy my thoughts. What worth they may have—does it matter? What is the merit of a thought based on—its benefit to society—to my ego—the welfare of my parents, or some creative speculation—or thoughts based in the subject of thoughtlessness; how thoughtless this sentence is! How remarkably thoughtless this entire document is! The written word, I write it, and my fellow human beings may understand; symbols arranged with entire meanings and connotations abbreviated and condensed into a scribble of ink or digital font.

How inane everything is—absurdity in everything and all things. Why do I write about nothing but my thoughts, yet how wonderful it is to do so.

Even worse, yesterday in the break room, my fellow comrades sat around me and made a statement they both agreed on in unison; one of them suggested I write a book, the other agreed. The first said that he would buy a book of my thoughts. The other agreed—again! I stood, walked away, and shook my head. I said, You flatter me, and they continued to speak on the subject even as I rounded the corner and descended the stairwell. Why—the ultimate question.

Why?

I don’t speak to my mother; she attempted to buy my love with material goods. My father was is a drunk and my mother was a whore. In Monty Python terminology, that would be, Your mother is a hamster, and your father smells of elderberries.

My father raised me to question everything. He taught me virtue and discipline despite his own vices. He says to me often when I question him on his hypocrisy, Do as I say, not as I do.

Therefore I am spiritual, disciplined, self-flagellating in the No pain no gain view on life; it dispels the suffering. Pain is a process in life, a cold shower.

A cold shower is unpleasant. You turn the water on and test the temperature; ice cold. You jump in shortly after preparing your music and dimming the lights. Immediately your balls clench up into your groin and your dick shrivels inward. You gasp and make wimpish noises for the first three seconds as your body assimilates with the relentless spray of frigid water. You spin in circles, arms huddled around yourself, teeth clenched and eyes shut as you wash your hair and scramble to lather up your armpits and ass. Wash your hair and face under the icy stream. Let the water pour all over you, and when your body signals intolerance, you force yourself to stand directly under. Water pelts your head and drips down your shoulders and back. You outstretch your arms and embrace the pain, then—you shut it off. It’s over, you listen to the dribbles of water falling from your elbows, your breathing steadies, eases, and you step out.

Pleasure.

You feel pleasure—dopamine surges in your brain, alerting you to the fact that you’ve serviced your flesh. You have suffered for the sake of pleasure. That is life; a cold shower.

Drugs. They are no different than food in the relation that both are comprised of chemicals the body utilizes. The key to both food and drugs is moderation. All things in moderation.

Nobody cares about the weather—not even yourself. What do people care for, I’m finding, is:

Other people-

That’s the extent of what people really care about.

The fact being, I find it horrible and bizarre that the reality of my existence is centered on the ego; ego thrives off the validation of others. We all suffer from this condition; for this reason we go insane from extended periods of isolation. To this end, I desire to isolate myself. The ego must be trumped, the soul tempered into a sublime work of natural art. The base of being human. Subsisting and enjoying the fine pleasures of life; all in moderation. Yet what is it all worth if you are alone? What is the worth of wisdom when there are none to share with? Such, I believe, is the plight of the fool, the tragedy of human endeavor.

The scholar and the merchant.

We all choose our path, and all paths meet at these two principles.

God manifested in the minds of men, and God said, "Here it is."

The scholar said, Why?

The merchant said, How?

And thus the fate of men were sealed; civilizations rise and fall; cultures propagate and wither away, lost to the earth, forgotten—destined to oblivion.

January 3rd, 2017

7:39 AM

Breakfast is my favorite time of the day.

The caffeine, saturated fats from the coconut oil, the protein in the yogurt, the antioxidants in the blueberries and honey, the fast-digesting carbohydrates of the apple.

First bite of the apple—dopamine rush. A Sip of coffee, a gaze at my bowl of untouched yogurt. Yes—the passage of time renders all consumed.

8:03 AM

I have consumed.

January 4th, 2017

7:44 AM

All news I read serves its own biased agenda skewed towards a purpose. Everything—all knowledge, is a scheme.

I desire to travel and leave this room, this land—though beautiful as it may be with its rolling mountains and densely packed forests, I’m weary of it. The bubble I live in, although comfortable, shrinks daily.

A world populated with people of all quality duality. I think of a weary nomad traveling with a mongrel dog. The nomad settles in for the night with a rusty lantern pilfered from an abandoned cabin in a bunk inside of an abandoned cabin. He pulls out a journal from his sunburnt jacket pocket and a small pencil worn down to a nub. He spends no time in deliberation and scrawls down page after page of his words, his thoughts—care-free, unfettered by doubt.

The written word, I can’t get enough of it. Transmission of information through dialogue and literature is the basis of all human cooperation. Gestures, muscularity, and guttural roars weren’t enough. Those most fluent in their native tongue aspire to great prospects and influence the many with the power they wield.

Knowledge is power is money.

A damned waste: All my knowledge acquired over the years of my young life, the only real application is for the pursuit of power. I may choose to share knowledge with others and enable my comrades to empower themselves; what’s the use, and who’s to say that any and all knowledge is factual, or even just?

I think, therefore, I am. Time for breakfast.

8:24 AM

Another virgin sip of coffee, a bite of an apple, a glob of yogurt. The morning ritual is harmonious and provides clarity—vitality. I’m finding that as life trudges on, I really do enjoy the simple pleasures of it all much more than the grand overarching idea of life. The idea of life renders life itself incomplete. To contemplate on life, the expenditure of thought towards existence, has induced the advancements of civilization, utilized and labored on by the greats—and how each of them suffered for it!

To invent, one must find fault with a current system. Humans are nothing but fault finders, an invasive primate, lofty and egotistical. The human virus, well and good.

Perhaps I already am Godhead, each and every one of us; all I need to find contentment is to think that I have. The mind is remarkable in that way.

To know is boring. To seek is stimulating, riveting, life-giving.

To know is to stagnate and brood, to seek is to journey and reflect.

The human spirit is malcontent in every moment of existence; if this were false, our survival mechanisms, the upkeep of our physical form, would degrade, and we would suffer all the more for it. This paradox of ‘living in the moment’ is a metaphorical slap to the face of the human condition; a mockery of it.

Sure, I may enjoy the moments of pleasure and live in each moment, and what of being bound to a rack and stretched apart until your bones pop from the sockets and your flesh tears asunder? What then of ‘living in the moment,’ would anyone desire to live in the moment then? Wouldn’t one be happier with a delve into a reservoir of memories and reliving a past pleasure during times of great anguish, or even hope for a future with less pain than the present? With these conditions in mind, one must remember:

Everything is relative. One may be upset because they spilled a cup of coffee at the Dunkin’ Donuts drive-through; now they must leech the mess off their pants with a wad of napkins and decide whether they will buy a new coffee, wait in line for another four minutes, and spend another $3.79, or if they will drive off to their next destination, muttering to themselves about the grievance they endure and the injustices of the life they live—perhaps sending a text message to an acquaintance at work about what just happened—posting the misfortune, complete with a picture of the soaked pant-leg, onto all their social media accounts.

One may also be upset because a mob has entered their home and are thereby beaten with iron rods, hog-tied, and dragged into the streets where they suffer more ridicule and lashings; after being beaten to near unconsciousness, one is thrown onto a pile of emberous timber and endures a slow burn to death, choked by a plume of black smog.

Both of these occurrences, based on the human population, happens at least twice in a 24 hour period. The only uncertainty lies in the details, so it would be even wiser to state:

At least twice a day, somebody is burned alive and somebody spills coffee on their pant leg.

Interesting to consider for both instances, suffering is equivalent; suffering is relative.

One suffers as much as they have experienced joy. To be elated, one must know what it means to be deflated. To triumph and prevail—to win, one experiences happiness and ushers in a future suffering when the aforementioned triumph becomes a loss, eventually, no matter what, for death is certain.

Death is indiscriminate, the great equalizer, the one guarantee we may all look forward to, the meaning of life. Nay—the meaning of life is a cold shower. The meaning of life is to live. The meaning of life is to not find yourself chased by a vindictive mob and stuffed into a burning car tire. The meaning of life is sex, food—the five senses and the indulgence of each. The meaning of life is asceticism, the pursuit of heaven, nirvana, the void. The meaning of life is a game of rock-paper-scissors with an old friend. The meaning of life is to breathe, to enjoy the fact that I may type this and whoever reads it may understand—the meaning of life—who cares—and we’ll all be better off for it.

I sit and masticate small spoonfuls of yogurt; berries burst in my mouth, swirls of honey lay over my tongue. Yes. The meaning of life is clear. Isn’t it beautiful, yet horrific. A terrible simplicity, akin to an adverb—horrendously self-indulgent. Though, I am grateful to be alive; my meaning is my own. I’m a sack of flesh and bone, delicate and mortal. Alone with my thoughts; this journal… My reprieve.

12:34 PM

Books enter my mind and I regurgitate the information in my own conceptions, illustrations, and ‘ultimate’ judgment. These judgments take form in thoughts—objects, tangible items to be used, and they are—in word. Here it is—my thoughts. The basis of all knowledge must have derived from the first cultures: Egyptian doctrines. I endured an abundance of filth information—a muddlement of my mind as I showered and prepared my meal.

January 5th, 2017

6:21 AM

I believe I may possess a gift for helping others with the trials and sufferings of life. Many I talk to confide to me that I make them feel better. Feel better, but are they better—no, of course not. I hug and shake hands with my comrades and they thank me from the bottom of their hearts for my words, though only they can help themselves with a plausible remedy of their own condition; the unbeknownst to me.

I’ve thought more on: ‘All selfless acts are intrinsically selfish,’ and after several discussions with three of my associates, I stumbled on this notion: ‘All selfish acts are intrinsically selfless.’ I have determined both statements are true, and that everything is irrelevant, cyclic, and that the underlying principles of what determines a ‘selfish’ or ‘selfless’ act is determined by subjective morality.

"There is nothing lost or wasted in this life."

-The Bhagavad Gita

The above statement is the single most inspired quote to live by. To live by, I mean in the sense of living, the drive to emerge from a contented slumber, to expect nothing of life, as life expects nothing of you. That every action, micro to macro, is at most, an etch, a scratch, a slight groove in the tapestry of the universe, the fabric of our reality.

To be insignificant is wonderful. To slow down throughout the daily course of life; to come to a halt in the middle of one’s day and to reflect on any moment with, ‘I am become’: that is transcendence.

However brief and fleetful, these moments of clarity in which we find solace that propels us further through the turmoils and uncertainties of the future—are a sham.

Perhaps I need something better to lecture to myself besides the boring fact that we exist. I believe I’m too hung up on it. We exist. We consume. We die and are consummated. The simple facts drive one to madness.

"The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown."

-H.P. Lovecraft

Lovecraft and Kafka resonate with me. I am subdued, awed upon the absorption of either of their works.

Kafka, Lovecraft, Poe, Hemingway—my top tier fiction writers. Kafka for his foreboding atmosphere and piercing insights. Lovecraft for his ridiculous descriptions of what is indescribable—the unknown. Poe for his imagery and accounts of human nature; Lovecraft may be grouped with him for this reason as well. Hemingway for his simplicity and the description of his characters through action and dialogue. The power of the written word has immortalized these men in my mind; the mind being the focal point of reality; I am affected with the power of their souls. Perhaps in death the tendrils of these writer’s influence will transcend with my passing spirit into the