When you have no regrets you deny the past saying "I would never go back to that moment or to any moment because I did it perfectly the first time" and thus this enables you to plunge headlong, dancing into the future with a recklessness characterised by suicide. You can never make a regret and so your future is assured: it is success! Congratulations!
This attitude is the same as having mountains of regrets. These people wander around shackled to their past like prisoners, they drag it and weep on it and spend endless amounts of time trying to intellectually break free from it. Their binding to the past is their assurance of their future, which is why these two polar extremes are the same, both are suicidal and both will achieve what they invest in, the truly cursed are those who carry regrets and success; they are stricken with uncertainty and a fear of more regrets yet still hopeful of more success. You would expect this to amount to balance but no; they are paralysed by either hope or fear (when you examine this deeper it really boils down to false hope and fear; false hope springs from fear so it really is just fear).
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Monday, October 23, 2006
This was supposed to be a daily thing
I started this blog to promote creativity, the idea was that people would read it and think I was a genius and leave all manner of comments and praise thus inspiring me to write more and more and with an overwhelming momentum behind me I would be propelled into a literary career sure to dazzle and sparkle and yet puzzle and befuddle at the same time.
The dream has died. My blog is almost untouched and virtually unread. I think and glorify everyday the position of a writer and how romantic it would be to hole myself up in a small room for weeks on end with nothing but a typewriter and walls made of literature. I always marvel at how writer's, such antisocial beings, manage to produce such sharp indictments of the modern world; surely it has to be pure genius. More likely than that though is the power of words. If it is a printed source do I take it to be truth? To what lengths do I evaluate the writer's opinion? Perhaps such a critical rethinking is a bad thing, I mean it largely just produces mountains of critics and few appreciators (something we seem to have these days).
The problem lies in our desire to snatch glory for ourselves (when I say our I mean my, and when I say ourselves I mean myself). Through being a critic rather than something proactive (a critic is reactive) we are able tear down an upheld value or piece or achievement in a hope of placing something of our own in that place, there is of course use in being a critic (such as maintaining a quality or fostering progress) but this I think has died in my generation and in it's place is a clawing, desperate golem with green eyes.
What do I ever say? Nothing, the answer is nothing. Ever.
The dream has died. My blog is almost untouched and virtually unread. I think and glorify everyday the position of a writer and how romantic it would be to hole myself up in a small room for weeks on end with nothing but a typewriter and walls made of literature. I always marvel at how writer's, such antisocial beings, manage to produce such sharp indictments of the modern world; surely it has to be pure genius. More likely than that though is the power of words. If it is a printed source do I take it to be truth? To what lengths do I evaluate the writer's opinion? Perhaps such a critical rethinking is a bad thing, I mean it largely just produces mountains of critics and few appreciators (something we seem to have these days).
The problem lies in our desire to snatch glory for ourselves (when I say our I mean my, and when I say ourselves I mean myself). Through being a critic rather than something proactive (a critic is reactive) we are able tear down an upheld value or piece or achievement in a hope of placing something of our own in that place, there is of course use in being a critic (such as maintaining a quality or fostering progress) but this I think has died in my generation and in it's place is a clawing, desperate golem with green eyes.
What do I ever say? Nothing, the answer is nothing. Ever.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
I am a perfectionist
I have a lot of conversation with a lot of different people but it always seems to revolve around one thing: the vacuity of my generation and my consequent isolation from it. I love my generation, I love how we are opposed to everything, how we are cynical and how we prefer the easy way out, mainly because we lack vision for the future.
Despite all this love I have no idea how to be a part of my generation; I feel outside of it, like a detatched spectator who is much older and is able to grow a decent amount of facial hair. So I have all the disadvantages of being isolated and distant but no advantages of being able to have a beard. I often go to pubs and just sit there, I try and just listen to conversation but nothing really interests me these days; people mostly just talk about other people anyway, about what Sarah said and- oh my god- what Dave did to Brad for Kate. Somebody occasionally want to talk to me but I mostly exude some terrible smartass, knowitall complex.
A question I like to ask people is: what do you want to be when you grow up? This doesn't get me very far though, in fact, most of the time people's ambitions resort to getting drunk or 'scoring' that night. I confess, on my best nights I cannot be so sure of what I am to do. It is in this way that these people are better people; they are sure, they know and then they act. They make positive decisions (that is, they make decisions to do, I make decisions to not do) and end up in exactly the place they knew they would. What is more is that they all cascade into that place between fits and laughter and being barely able to walk, a druken stupor of alcholism and elation.
I drink to forget usually, forget that I am tormented by an anti- existentialism. I pretend that I am making decisions to become something, striving to a noble and great existence. I think that I am more likely to tie myself off in a knot of confusion and intellectual puzzles. Soren Kierkgaard defeats himself utterly in this regard. He comes to the conclusion that the highest sphere of life is religion, these days religion is relagated (academically speaking) to the reaches of superstition and a lack of resolve or ability to 'do' life. Kierkgaard said that the paradoxes of religion (especially Jesus, the supreme paradox) were to be accepted as a sign of faith and that was a measure of our ability to recognise our inability. Philosophy is a tangle of giving up, we can never really know anything, never know if anything exists or how to act; how then should we act? We are cursed with the knowledge of our uncertainty, yet we must move forward lest we be swallowed by the deluge of progressive society as we stand back and think in a sea of runners.
I hope to be something someday, to make a decision that is not perfect but right.
Despite all this love I have no idea how to be a part of my generation; I feel outside of it, like a detatched spectator who is much older and is able to grow a decent amount of facial hair. So I have all the disadvantages of being isolated and distant but no advantages of being able to have a beard. I often go to pubs and just sit there, I try and just listen to conversation but nothing really interests me these days; people mostly just talk about other people anyway, about what Sarah said and- oh my god- what Dave did to Brad for Kate. Somebody occasionally want to talk to me but I mostly exude some terrible smartass, knowitall complex.
A question I like to ask people is: what do you want to be when you grow up? This doesn't get me very far though, in fact, most of the time people's ambitions resort to getting drunk or 'scoring' that night. I confess, on my best nights I cannot be so sure of what I am to do. It is in this way that these people are better people; they are sure, they know and then they act. They make positive decisions (that is, they make decisions to do, I make decisions to not do) and end up in exactly the place they knew they would. What is more is that they all cascade into that place between fits and laughter and being barely able to walk, a druken stupor of alcholism and elation.
I drink to forget usually, forget that I am tormented by an anti- existentialism. I pretend that I am making decisions to become something, striving to a noble and great existence. I think that I am more likely to tie myself off in a knot of confusion and intellectual puzzles. Soren Kierkgaard defeats himself utterly in this regard. He comes to the conclusion that the highest sphere of life is religion, these days religion is relagated (academically speaking) to the reaches of superstition and a lack of resolve or ability to 'do' life. Kierkgaard said that the paradoxes of religion (especially Jesus, the supreme paradox) were to be accepted as a sign of faith and that was a measure of our ability to recognise our inability. Philosophy is a tangle of giving up, we can never really know anything, never know if anything exists or how to act; how then should we act? We are cursed with the knowledge of our uncertainty, yet we must move forward lest we be swallowed by the deluge of progressive society as we stand back and think in a sea of runners.
I hope to be something someday, to make a decision that is not perfect but right.
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