#philosphical

[lgist]

Doors.

In front of you stands two doors, behind one, the life you dream of, behind the other, peril. How you can stand there, wilting away, hovering your hand above the knob before quickly retreating, to safety. You’ll linger there, for time, questioning the rationale, comfortable on the other side of risk. “Why, I’ll just stay here” you repeat to yourself, as the safety is overbearing, it whispers lies, its secret in discontent. Your mind races, with possibility, it's naturally curious, it wonders, ponders and creates scenarios. You’re growing bored here, its sanitary outlook washing over any sense of play, the dullness creeping up on you as you forget what color feels like, on your skin, so the mind imagines, it will fill in these blanks, that were so willfully colored for you, with crayons. You’ve run out, the time has come, should you stay or should you go? 

Why must it be so difficult? What brought you here? Which amalgamation of choices has willed you to a clandestine choice, a choice that is only yours. Choice is scary, with an equal opportunity to ruin your life as it does amplify it. We have grown accustomed to choice, we call it preference, I chose vanilla over chocolate, I chose to wake up early this morning, I chose to sleep in. I chose to live, I chose to die, how quickly choice can escalate, from the mundane to life altering, in any sense. Our choices, while they might be our own, affect everything around us, just as the butterfly chose to flap its wings. Who do you love? Why do you love them? What made you love them? Who do you hate? Why do you hate them? What made you hate them?

Choice is blind, it has its own scales, like justice, it must be balanced, for what you seek to gain can equally be lost, according to choice. 

So we hesitate, staring at these doors, knowing what it means to decide to take the first step. Here we are introduced to Choice’s offspring, risk. Risk stems from choice, it is the tranquilizer, how it can strip your movement, and make you a statue. Too nervous to move, too comfortable for the potential of sacrifice. It is here, you’d feel a gentle pat on the back, as it urges you to move. It asks you, do you wish to die here? For that is the third choice, you either walk through door one, door two, or you don’t move, you boil away the rest of it and that’s all you have left, it reminds you. It asks do you fear the unknown more than you fear being stuck? Is this really where you want to die? Have you given the most you can? Have you lived to the fullest, truly, unless you know what waits behind one of these doors? Endless, it's almost tormenting you, mocking your decision to stay here, like a roommate who's sick of your habits and holds an intervention. It is here, life will give you an intervention, it will laugh at you, ridicule you, completely break you, for choosing to stay here. Your mind internalizes this, it believes it, so you become depressed, unable to move, unable to take a step in the right direction, unable to think yourself worthy of moving on. 

Withered away, you’ve become a skeleton, did you die with regrets? Did you die wondering what’s behind those damn doors? Did you die peacefully, with a quiet mind? Did you die with your hand on the knob? Did you decide to move too late? Only you know, or you will know, should you decide to stay here, staring at endless possibilities, literally at your fingertips. A stagnant life is what awaits you here, a pointless existence, where you have nothing to show, where you will be haunted by the decisions you didn’t make, rather than the ones you did. Justified in your comfort, you have successfully thwarted risk, and given the middle finger to choice, now you must pay the price, as you close your eyes in this dark, antiquated, cold room. 

Unknowing of the warmth of winning, unknowing of the bitterness of losing, and of the conclusions these doors had in store for you, both good and bad. I think it’s better knowing, rather than dying in cold comfort, don’t you?

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Felt Inspired.

As always….

Much Love - S

[lgist]

The warden: Collapse.

Is it worthwhile? Spending a lifetime, chasing luck. Waiting for the moment to present itself, ripping it out of time with our hands. Wishing desperately, to remain here, to freeze. Fearful of what might happen, what could happen, when it will happen. Collapse is damning, how we learn from it, how we run from it. To have something, everything, to see it vanish within the day, to yearn to stand upon it again, to see the sky above the clouds once more. Once you have tasted collapse, once you have familiarized yourself with its methods, how frightening living can become. Serving as a reminder of no matter how tall you build, how structurally sound the building is, how sturdy your pillars, all it takes is one to fall for collapse to introduce itself. The air is filled with dust, what once stood tall is now rubble, and as we look upon the aftermath of collapse, we ask ourselves again, is it worthwhile? As we return to the ground, as the fall has hardened our skin, need we pick up the pieces and start again? To feel this pain again? The cold touch of the ground? Need we pray that the next building has a lower chance of collapsing? Desperately wishing, to have the original restored, to what it once was, if only today didn’t happen. Except we cannot freeze time, those seconds are stored elsewhere, to be remembered. Exiled from the past, the present baring its fangs with lock and key, the future losing its excitement. Such is the time altering prowess of collapse, how it can freeze time within the folds of our minds, how it can make the present a viscous prison, how the heat of the future cannot penetrate its ice. So here we sit, isolated in time, within our cells, reliving our lives. Disconnected, rotting, alone as we hear other prisoners cry. How can we escape from here? Some of us don’t even want to, as we sear our eyes into the sky, until our pupils are burnt into the sun. Comfortable in the snow, comfortable watching as others establish their skyscrapers, waiting for their inevitable collapse, how entitled we become when they get taller, shaking our fists, shouting “it should've been me”. How pitiful we become, frozen behind bars, left to watch as others invent new peaks, drowning in a sense of failed self-actualization. 

What does it mean to be motivated? To be willing to do whatever it takes to achieve? To be able to sacrifice for a greater good? To be able to push forward, regardless of how far you have been pulled back? What does it take to stay motivated? Is it a goal that cannot escape your mind? Is it a cause that touches your soul? Motivation is extinct in this prison, perhaps it is because we feel we have already peaked, perhaps we think we have accomplished what we set out to do and collapse has cut the reward short. Maybe that is the secret to motivation, an unattainable goal, a peak that evolves as soon as you reach it. Maybe that is the lesson of collapse, to never settle, to always progress and update what is outdated or it will fade. Maybe that is how we escape luck, for every variable must be experienced. You spend long enough in your cell, you notice its imperfections, its flaws, its deeper lessons. This place of comfort, how quickly you can feel entrapped, because of a spark, because of the orange tint that surrounds the metals. How outdated this cell feels, it is ready to collapse, how long has it been this way? 

How long has it been waiting to collapse? Under its own weight. One could say there is another peak awaiting you, on the other side of the bars, as the prison continues to fall, as you continue to realize that there is nothing for you here. That no amount of self-pity can reverse time, that no amount of unprecedented heat can excite the present. That the future is only a set of peaks, waiting for you to triumph each and every one, allowing you to fall again so you are forever grounded. We need not forget how the grass feels, we must remember where motivation lies.  

__________________________________________

Even I struggle to find motivation sometimes, Much Love - S

[lgist]

Hope, fear and dreams.

As our eyes shut, as the moon continues to rise, we enter a different plain. Bending the rules of reality, our minds putting centre stage that which we desire, that which we fear. To dream is to be human yet in the fog of chaos that presents itself while our eyes are open, we rarely remember them, putting aside this facet of life that takes up a third of our existence, we continue to live, to struggle, to rejoice, to grief. Forgetting what it feels like to fly amongst the clouds, to be with the one you love, to hear the voice of someone passed, we continue to survive. As if it is an attempt to escape, escape from what we are chasing, to finally have something within reach, not inches away from our grasp. A system so complex, there isnt the faintest idea why it happens. Cruel is this system, as when you arrive back to reality abruptly, how we plead to dream again. Perhaps this is where hope was invented, as we hope to realise these beautiful visions that took us to bliss. Confrontational is this system, as what we fear will manifest behind  our eye lids. Avoided was this fear in the day, be it fear of loss, fear of death, fear of spiders, the night will land eventually, ready to confront your fears, where we can’t hide from them. Interconnected is this system, as it uses all of your experiences against you, like a highly decorated detective, it knows all there is to know about you, ready to convict you of your latest crime. For the mind is a selfish organ, it is in these dreams where our ego is presented, where entitlement can flourish naturally. As it is ours and ours alone to experience, the mind is free to wonder. To ponder what it would actually be like to obtain our deepest desires, to experience our rooted fears. We are never ready for what our minds have in store, under the stars, what will it try to show us tonight? Where will it take us? Somewhere familiar, or somewhere new? To the moon, or in the embrace of their arms?

If one was to have each and every one of their desires met, would they still dream? Would there be something to dream about? Would there be anything for the mind to attach to? Maybe that is why we are opportunistic creatures, seeking to expand into every crevasse we deem fit, so we can continue to dream bigger. So the mind can continue wondering in it’s own filth, looking for gems amongst the heap of garbage. So it can remain hopeful of an even brighter future. Is this why contentment is so hard to achieve? When you know it can be better, when your mind subliminally shows you it can be better, why strive for anything less? Why desire a present that cannot guarantee a bright future? If one was to fear nothing, what retrospective confrontations would they face in their slumber? Without that self-preservation, without that internal monologue of safety, how can we expect to live longer, to achieve more than what we thought we were capable of? Ironically it is fear that can make you surpass your limits but also become acquainted with them. Forever persisting, to remain remembered and be forgotten. Oxymoronic in nature, fear can drive and fear can deflate. These emotions work in tandem, as if in a dance, we hope to fear less and fear to hope more. For what if our hopes fall upon deaf ears and become meaningless? What if our fears never subside, continuing to persist? Another balancing act the mind places on itself, another joke the mind loves to tell. 

It is another comical thought, to ponder what happens in our own minds. Why don’t we just know what goes on in there? What evolutionary standard allowed us to have thoughts of the inner machinations of ourselves? Why aren’t we privy to the thousands of automatic systems that we rely upon inside our bodies? What made our minds fizzle this information out? Like it has taken the liberty upon itself, like it is a different being besides the one it resides in, with its own aspirations and ambitions, that doesn’t allow itself to be seen in consciousness. That only shows itself in the unconscious, while we rest. Perhaps this proves the existence of a soul, perhaps our souls are our consciousness, constantly grappling for control and relieving it when we sleep, so the mind can be unchained, released, to give it’s opinion on how the conscious is doing. Unfortunately, we rarely heed its advice on the road to be whole. Contentment lives there, where the conscious and unconscious mind can meet in the middle. Where they can discuss where they want to go together, instead of working against each other, fearing to step on each others toes, hoping the one wont notice the other, dreaming of when it will happen.

__________________________

Dream bigger dreams, Much love - S

__________________________

[lgist]

Fear Of Love. Love pt2

What does it mean to love? To connect with something so deeply, you begin to orbit it, happy to spectate it’s beauty, happy to die for its longevity. Universal, is this feeling, how it shines brightly, blinding like staring at the sun bluntly. Addicted, as we burn our retinas, the mind cannot get a word in, rationality seeming absurd, as our hearts spill. We continue to spectate what can only be described as perfection, how we can manipulate ourselves into thinking it exists, how time will convince us otherwise. For love cannot exist without imperfection, without faults that test your conviction to love. Dangerous is this drug for that reason, the biggest gamble any one person can take, we go all in for love how defeated we become when we leave empty handed. 

All that work, all that admiration, all of the blood our hearts have spilled, all of the tears your eyes couldn't withhold, what was the outcome? A lonesome, cold rock, shooting through space in its infinite dark night. On the opposite end, when you hit the jackpot, how fearless you can become with an endless well of heat, exhumed from the dark, brought into the light. Is it worth the risk? Perhaps we don’t think of it as a risk but a necessity, a journey one must go through with the things that they love. Truth be told, I fear love, of giving myself to love, of diving headfirst into the unknown, just to see what happens. Where can one end up after this journey? In the embrace of something warm, where the cold cannot reach? Or in the clutches of frozen emotion, hanging from a ceiling? I fear of losing things that I love, for it is worse than never loving at all, to know the warmth of something bright only to remember its touch in our coldest nights, only making us more fearful of trying again, a diabolical cycle, one that consumes every iota of progress within the mind, for the heart is too loud in its retrospective cries. “Haven’t I given enough?”, “What more do you want from me?”, the heart screams. “It’s time to move on”, “We have given enough”, the mind pleads. Love births confliction within the soul, for you will question your own motives like you don’t know yourself, estranged from love we become estranged from ourselves. I fear of losing myself in love, in its absence, in hatred's abundance. Angry at myself, angry at love, hateful at what I used to love because I went to bust. 

How long can you run from love? Until it snatches you away and consumes you? Until it breaks you down and creates something new? Unpredictable is love’s gaze, its a random encounter after random encounter. Like we are all voyagers, mindlessly exploring the cosmos until a star and its gravitational pull finds us and we could’ve flown in any direction but we ended up here. Perhaps it is love that invented the word destiny, for it must've been fate that I ended up here. 

Orbiting this specific star, out of the billions that are taking their own space. Perhaps that is the definition of destiny, in the chaos that follows life, in the randomness that encompasses everything, it is this specific set of random circumstances that got me here and that has to mean something. There are millions of encounters a day, millions of interactions that happen spontaneously at a given moment, it makes the task of finding love seem impossible and yet when we stop looking and allow ourselves to fly, here we end up, under the glow of another sun. 

By the end of this journey, are we someone different? Do we become better? Do we become worse? Are we the same as when we arrived? Will we wilt away with this star until the end of time? Or will this sun expand and swallow us whole in its rage and fury, burning us to the core, until there's nothing left but a husk? Will we realise we are being burned in time to run away? Or, in our addiction, will we forget the star’s transgressions upon us? Curiosity killed the cat, we can only know if we try and explore these endless questions that love provides. That is the aforementioned risk, it is not a question of value to one’s wellbeing, it is a question of fulfilling our destinies of randomness. Of undergoing a journey bigger than ourselves, of finding out for ourselves. I cannot answer every question, for you or even for myself, these answers are given after experiencing all that love has to offer. Love has the ability to empower all that come into contact with it, just as much as it has the power to completely annihilate one’s self esteem, one’s ego. Are you willing to flip that coin? Or is it already spinning in the air and you’re looking at each flip with intent, waiting to find out where you lie? Are you ready to brunt the full force of love’s absence? Are you ready to embrace the power of love’s fulfillment? Only one way to find out.

_______________________________________

I love you. - S 

More soon.

_______________________________________

[lgist]

A self-fulfilling prophecy.

Plagiarized personalities that constantly shift, tear apart and rebuild again, like the very ground beneath us. All heading towards the same destination, unfamiliar with our routes. Boarding, with our heads in the clouds, dreaming. Hoping to not miss our stop, hoping to find it in time. Our journeys, characterized by our luggage, we tread carefully as to not reach the weight limit. Avoiding eyelines as we shrink, some of us wish to not be seen, to be invisible. Covering our insecurities with substance, hiding our masks with red eyes and black lungs. Abusing that which gave you a moment of peace, for moments are all you can achieve. Forever coasting, observing, hoarding envy. Staring at life through the mirror of a pupil that isn’t yours, silently begging for a chance to engage with that emotion. Convinced this void is what makes you unique in a world filled with black holes, an ego’s delusion. My heart yearns but my mind bickers, so focused on the insignificant, unable to find what is important. A self-fulfilling prophecy that repeats, like living life within purgatory, I am trapped. Uncomfortable in my own skin, I disconnect, ready to be alone again. Comfortable in the dark, I yearn to connect once more. Avoiding confrontation, a good impression is necessary, so I sink into my seat, unwilling to be heard, ready to listen and comply. Surrounded by progress, I am behind, feeling the pressure and succumbing to abuse. Surrounded by love, I am separated, struggling to maintain connections. Surrounded by passion, I lack motivation, forever hitting brick walls and dead ends. Unable to cry as self-pity has found me guilty for the transgressions that have placed me here. Regretful of what I said or didn’t say, of what I did or didn't do. A painful existentialism, knowing there are versions of you that have achieved, that have blossomed and flourished while you lay shriveled and dying. Continuously pacing within the crevasses and folds, there is not an instance of quiet, of peace, of harmony. Empathizing with worlds beyond my pain, I feel ungrateful. I have been provided with every privilege and yet I cannot realise my duty. A safety net serves to catch me and I cannot find the strength to jump, to take a leap of faith. For what I fail? What If I make a mistake? What if this isn’t what I want? So focused on the insignificant, unable to find what is important. 

I cling to dreams and their promises. Their ability to take me away during my slumber and put me exactly where I want to be. How I awaken, alone again. How that dream becomes a memory, forever repeating for another attempt to get me going. For dreams are a product of the heart, your deepest desires, hope. How they can infuse you with a melancholy sorrow and a burning impulse simultaneously. It is real magic, as our minds pass time until the sun rises. Magic that binds us to the ground, that allows us to maneuver through the smog, that allows us to find that what we have been searching for. Relentless in their efforts, they will drag you into confrontation, into the uncomfortable, into passion. Show you who you really are beneath the veil, reveal the authenticity of your power. Your power to create, to astonish, to inspire, to connect, to begin again. However, when your knees are buckling under the weight of your luggage, dreams quickly become nightmares. These memories that repeat due to a tragic heart, it is trauma from an ever repeating experience. Lost within the piles of hoarded angst, the heart no longer desires to beat, to produce hope. A perfect harmony of relentless wake and antagonizing sleep, the mind and heart are in agreeance. Again, we reveal ourselves to abuse, for a moment is all we can achieve. 

Why must I feel this way? Why do I feel beaten by pressure? Pleading for a release, a chance to breathe. Dissatisfied with the outcomes, I cannot find my route. For I am plagued with destinations, unable to choose one, I grow ever confused. My path is waning beneath me, as I lose direction. My compass, misaligned, pointing me at the wrong destinations. Conversations dwindling into white noise, I cannot focus as my ego presses my issues to the forefront of my mind. I feel narcissistic, as I cannot put others above my own. I feel guilty, as I am not in a position to empathize fully with those around me. Like gasoline to a fire, this only worsenes the problem. Another dead end, I am unable to fix or navigate around. Is this the direction the rest of my life will take? Just a valley of forgotten disappointments and newfound grievances? 

Maybe, or perhaps a different story is planned for me. A future in which I stand confident, where I can be of use. Where the self-pity ends, where connection begins. Where I am able to fully comprehend the stories of those around me, how interesting the lives of others have shaped out to be. Where I can engage with the emotions I desire the most, where I am not imprisoned with the key dangling out my grasp. Where my dreams become reality, where I find my route. Where I can offload my luggage and move freely. Where pressure doesn’t dictate my life, rather enhance it with adrenaline surging. Where I can truly spend my hard earned time with those I cherish. Where I am a wizard, who controls my fate, who aligns my own destiny. Where passion  burns where I walk, providing me with a bounce in each step. Perhaps that is meaning, perhaps that is purpose. To live individually, to feel together. To live through strife, to find reason for tranquility. To bestow these lessons to those after us, to allow them to dream and to grip hope to harness it’s infinite energy, so it can shine a light when they are lost in darkness. To teach empathy so we can eliminate useless struggle, struggle placed upon man by man. To live in a world of connected development, where we are not isolated by where we work and how much we make. That is the future, the dream, the hope, that inspires me to continue. What’s yours?

________________________________________________________________

Well that was a trip, wouldn't you say so? Perhaps this isn’t resonating at all with you, that’s ok I hope you still enjoyed. I hope you could find something in this that you could connect with, that is my ultimate goal. More consistency coming soon, Much Love - S

[mercutio-of-escalus]

sometimes i think about a short story i wrote in my spanish lit course about a journalist who enters an art museum, prepared to document their new exhibit in order to advance her career. but instead of finding it she enters a blank, monotonous room where she feels disconcerted and tense, causing her to risk it all and decide to pick the lock on a mysterious door off to the left. she opens it and inside she sees lost artworks that have been missing for decades or more, all created by masterful artists. she realizes, however, that these works aren't meant to be found, and that the only way they can exist in this world is to be forever out of reach. she can never show them to anyone else, but she can embody them through living, and carry them into the outside world by existing as a form of art. because just like film, poetry, paintings, and novels are art, living can be a form of creation and creative liberation as well. the story ends with the title sentence, "el arte que es vivir". i wish the world was like that sometimes.

[lgist]

The perished poppies, dwindling daffodils, vanished violets.

As we sink into this feeling, how do you feel? As we try to claw our way out, what is the thought process? As if every emotion is fleeting, waiting their turns to run their cycles. How hopeful you can feel one day, how hopeless you can feel the next. Precious time spent building something great, precious time wasted on tearing it down. The seeds of doubt are potent, the promise of perfection is alluring. Conflicted, forever contradicting the very nature of life, we strive further into the unknown. Except when we learn more, it is not enlightenment but peril. Constantly disconnecting from reality, frustration is rising. As we wish to see concrete monoliths burn, as we wish to feel the pain from a broken nose. Playing witness to our dreams all around us, it is torment, we feel forgotten. Seeking distraction we become addicted, our eyes red, our skin itching, our health deteriorating. Establishing unhealthy relationships in the guise of a stable mind and a face with a smile. Yet you cannot be distracted from that staring you in the eyes, where you want to be. You realize every decision you made has prevented you from getting there, filled with regret another cycle needs to run its course. By the end of this cycle you’d expect to be filled with motivation and inspiration, much of the opposite as regret makes you shrink, makes you feel insignificant, we have already failed so much, why keep going to fail again? Endless questions, prohibiting progression, clouding judgement. Our goals never more pristine, more crystal in vision, edging away from our fingertips as the path beneath us is consumed by self-deprecation. Our heads in a collective fog, all facing the same pressing issues all individualized into our own struggles. Crippled by our own sensibilities, our egos unable to move out of the way, we are separated. So alone, the warmth of each others touch is lost in the blizzard of contempt, we are frozen, we cannot move, we cannot love. For love is an emotion of radiating heat and vibrancy, that which must be felt in the beats of your heart, the pressure of your blood, the connections within your mind. That which must be shared in abundance, that which is an infinite source. What colours can be seen behind a thick wall of ice? The perished poppies, dwindling daffodils, vanished violets. The beauty of life, subdued by our overwhelming need to become something. As if we are born as nothing, we have something to prove as soon as we exit the womb and our skin feels light for the first time. Why does it feel like an obligation and not a gift? As if we asked to feel this way, to forever live in doubt and regret. Soulless voids and muzzled voices, the devil on our shoulders shaking his fist towards our forgotten dreams. 

How you cry, tears running down a familiar path. How you wish to be different, to feel different. To find that fire again, to will it in existence. How it would melt this ice-berg that has formed around you. So isolated, you cannot muster the strength to escape. Perhaps this is your new addiction, the cold. It is so much easier, so much more comfortable. To be around that which what you know, your skin is frostbitten, your heart barley emitting a pulse. You cannot even scream for help, your cords all tangled creating a lump in your throat. You watch people pass you by, inspect you, see what surface level chiseling will do to get you out of there, it’s hopeless, they eventually move on. You become familiar with abandonment, as you further distance yourself from connection and delve deeper into isolation. Disconnecting with yourself, you’re several layers deep into a personality that does not match your conscience. From here, life is a blur. Days are filled with numb conversations, intimate addictions and constant deadlines, how you beg to be anywhere else. Nights are lonely as you finally unwind from an Oscar worthy performance and you sink into a comfort of distraction. Is this any way to live? Without compassion? Without love? Without empathy? Without warmth? Endless questions, prohibiting progress. 

When you are this low, this directionless, this deep in the abyss, what options are available to you? You can stay here, frozen in place, for the rest of your life until you fossilize in that iceberg, however early you want to start that process is up to you, surviving life to feel relieved from life or you can decide to open up. You can decide to trust, you can decide to begin again. This is no battle that can be fought alone, you have already lost in your own territory. There are few things in life you can control, where you are born, who your parents are, your economic status upon birth, are all out of your hands. What we do have control of is the will to continue, to return to a once long forgotten memory. As this memory is yours, this dream is yours, truly the definition of ownership is that what you have created on your own, with aspiration and ambition. We can control who surrounds us, who inspires us, what instills us with passion, with fire. We can water those flowers on the other end of this thick and overbearing wall of ice. Break free from mental prisons we put ourselves in, put an end to the endless interrogation that only serves to further decrease your mental health. You are not a perpetrator but a victim to your own criticism, you need no longer to corrode your own skin. Every question is meaningless, every answer is shallow, so don’t find meaning in words you invent to overthink, find it in the interpersonal connection we can feel with each other. Don’t be afraid of trust, end your interrogation, come to terms with your regret and try again, the cycle must end here. Else you’ll be forgotten in a boundless ocean of abandoned ice-bergs, find your chisel.

—-----------------------------------------

Hello friends, been a while….. Again. I am thinking of doing another event, similar to the 30/30 challenge where I wrote a blog a day, seems like it would be an interesting challenge as I’m noticing a distinct lack of topics coming to mind, perhaps the blog needs something to focus on for more specific content, or I’ll keep it as a pseudo-journal for me, we’ll see. Hope you enjoyed a classic “dont be sad blog” as another return to LGIST. Much love - S  

[xxxsoukokuxxx]

Words cut deeper than knives. A knife can be pulled out, words are embedded into our soul.

i’m not sure