“He could be standing right next to you and you wouldn’t know. The devil grows inside the hearts of the selfish and wicked. White, brown, yellow and black-colored is not restricted.”—Immortal Technique
I wouldn’t necessarily call myself “lost.” But rather wandering, scouring the Earth for hidden treasures of the unknown world. There are places to see and people to meet. Though most days my wandering has to come to a halt, I hope that a treasure will appear before my eyes as I muster more energy to embark once again on my journey. A journey to who knows where. A journey to anywhere but here.
Making rhymes out of nothing, well isn’t that something? If I could spit that 1, 2, 1, 2, would that impress you? I’m just trying to get your attention. I want to be more than just a honorable mention. I can show you things you’ve never seen before. Make you feel things you’ve never felt before. I want to leave you begging for more.
It’s sad how some people tonight will say that the heinous and malicious attacks by those guys is fucked up and by tomorrow, a fraction of the people who watched the video will forget it happened in the first place. Stand up to a cause until the very end, not just for one night.
The world we live in is a world of mingled good and evil. Whether it is chiefly good or chiefly bad depends on how we take it. To look at the world in such a way as to emphasize the evil is the art of pessimism. To look at it in such a way as to bring out the good, and throw the evil into the background, is the art of optimism. The facts are the same in either case. It is simply a question of perspective and emphasis. Whether we shall be optimists or pessimists depends partly on temperament, but chiefly on will. If you are happy it is largely to your own credit. If you are miserable it is chiefly our own fault. I propose to show you both pessimism and optimism; give a prescription for each, and leave you to take whichever you like best. For whether you are a pessimist or an optimist doesn’t depend on whether the world is wholly good or wholly bad, or whether you have a hard lot or an easy one. It depends on what you like, and what you want, and what you resolve to be. Perchance you are the most fortunate and happy person among my readers.
There are thousands of people who would be miserable were they situated precisely as you are. They would make themselves miserable, because that is their temperament, that is their way of looking at things. And even in your happy and enviable condition, with all your health and wealth, and hosts of friends, and abundance of interests, they would find plenty of stuff to make their misery out of. On the other hand, you may be the person of all others among my readers who has the hardest time, who has lost dearest friends, who has the severest struggle with poverty, who has worst enemies, who meets cruelest unkindness,who seems to have least to live for. Thousands of people would be supremely happy if they were in precisely your circumstances. Life is like the ocean. It drowns one man, because he yields to it passively and blindly. It buoys up the other because he strikes it skilfully, and buffets it with lusty sinews.
There is enough that is bad in every life to make one miserable who is so inclined. We all know people who have plenty to eat, a roof over their heads, a soft bed to lie in, money in the bank to cover all probable needs for the rest of their days, plenty of friends, good social position, an unbroken family circle, good education, even the profession of some sort of religion, who yet by magnifying something that happened to them a long while ago, or something that may happen to them at some time to come, or what somebody has said about them, or the work they have to do, or the slight someone has shown them, or even without anything as definite as even these trifles, contrive to make themselves and everybody else perpetually wretched and uncomfortable. These people have acquired the art of pessimism.
The material which both pessimists and optimists build their theories out of is precisely the same. The fundamental fact at the basis of both theories is this: The universe is infinite, we are finite. Therefore the little piece of the universe that we can bite off in any particular mouthful, and call our own at any given time is in comparison to what remains unappropriated, very small. Hence we are never content with what we have, but are always striving for something beyond our reach. The moment anything is gained, it ceases to satisfy and we still crave the unattained. In other words, a satisfied desire is a contradiction in terms. If you desire, you are not satisfied. If you are satisfied, you no longer desire. But since life without desire would be not life, but death, therefore unsatisfied desire is the characteristic feature of human life. That is the common fact out of which both pessimism and optimism are constructed.
Dwell on the impossibility of ever getting a state of complete and permanent satisfaction with what you have and you become a pessimist. Dwell on the opportunity for endless growth and conquest which this same fact makes possible, and you become an optimist. In a word, live in the passive voice, waiting for good to come to you ready-made, and you will be a pessimist, miserable to the end of your days. Live in the active voice, intent on the progress you can make and the work you can accomplish, you will acquire the art of optimism, and be happy.
Death came to me one day and offered me a deal. He asked, “If you join me, you will no longer feel the pain you do now. Do you accept?” I hesitated.
“No one will ever do you wrong, you will no longer encounter the idiotic people you face daily. No more expectations, disappointments, none of that. Do you accept now?”
Death was coaxing me with sugar-coated words of regret. Do I accept such a grand opportunity to end everything? Or do I continue living the way I do? Constantly searching and hoping that tomorrow will be different than the last. He held out his skeletal hand, it was surreal that Death was right in front me.
In that moment, I knew I was in way too deep. I’ve gone the past point of no return. And if I should dive in deeper, I wouldn’t care.
Is it weird that I try to find meaning in nothing? Or is it weird that I hate bacon? I’ve been walking aimlessly on this Earth for 16 years with no sense of direction. And yet, I have a destination. I have the scars to prove that I’m on a journey. Though I bandage those scars so people won’t question. I want to be heard. And I’m yelling, why can’t anyone hear me? You are looking. But you are not seeing. You are listening. But not comprehending. I am nothing. But I want to be worth something.
I’ll write of a romance that you only see in movies and read often in books. I’ll write of the moment I laid eyes on you. You were sweaty after playing ball in the park, muscle tank, shorts, Nike socks, and Jordans. Usually, I disregard anybody that passes by me but there was something about you. Something about you that I couldn’t point a finger to. I’ll write about the fleeting moment we caught a gaze of each other in our line of sight. I’ll write about how red my cheeks turned as I turned away. I’ll write about when I looked again, you had already left. I sat on that bench, thinking about your stature, thinking about your features, thinking about everything that was allusive and endearing. Just the mental image of your face made my cheeks hurt. I’ll write about how I went back the next day to see you were sitting in the same spot I was sitting the day before. You looked like you were waiting for someone, could it possibly be me?
I discreetly walked towards you but I was abruptly stopped, my knees locked. Another girl had sat down beside you and you greeted her with such joy. My heart sank to the bottom of stomach but my head kept telling me to keep going. So, I did. I sat down at the end of that same bench and stared into the distance. I’ll write about how this isn’t what you see on the big screen of the passionate kiss or the climatic moment in the story where the guy suddenly pops the question. No, I’ll write about how love doesn’t go everyone’s way. I’ll write about how love is desperately searched for, but often overlooked. I’ll write about this romance, this almost romance. But it’s funny really, because I’m not a writer. Love just makes me, and everyone else, do strange things.
I don’t understand how lying coincides with the truth. Lying and the truth are two separate things but people these days treat those words as if they mean the same thing. Lying is deceptive and misleading while the truth is honest and true. People these days obviously can’t differentiate the two from each other since all they do to save their own asses is to lie. How can you expect anyone to confide in you if you can’t be trustworthy?
Don’t send me a text because I want you to write me a letter. I want to experience that feeling of excitement when the mail man arrives with your letter. I want to experience the eagerness and anxiousness as I open the letter and begin reading. I want to have trouble trying to decipher what you wrote and laugh at how ridiculous your penmanship is. I want to be able to physically hold your thoughts rather than have it sit in my phone. I want to be able to ponder on what I should write back when I mail you letter. I want to know that I am worth the time you set aside to sit down and actually think about what you should write. I want to know that I’m worth more than technology. Don’t send me a text because anyone can do that with ease. Write me a letter because a letter will be worth more years from now than a hunk of junk with irretrievable data.
I just want to find a guy who’s into the same music as I am so we can discover new music together and just sit back and chill. We’ll vibe together and slip into musical comatose. Subconsciously head bopping, tapping our feet, and thinking, “Damn, now this is music.”
It’s a shame that most people underestimate their capabilities. It’s a shame that most people believe that they are inadequate compared to others. It’s a shame that most people are too hard on themselves for not being the epitome of perfection. It’s a shame that most people blame themselves or others for their misfortunes. It’s a shame that most people would rather take their life early and not bother to see the next sunrise of a new day. It’s a shame that most people do not love themselves. And it’s a damn shame that most people believe that happiness is unattainable. Happiness is in the palm of your hand, all you have to do is grasp it.