It’s funny to me, in perhaps a mostly ambivalent way, how people are so strange.
The main thing human beings possess that distinguishes us from other creatures. Something some of us work so hard to dim. Precisely because in the end, above all, to an extent greater than we can understand, the fundamental desire of human beings is to be like everyone else. (Or at least, like the majority of them).
Just not different. Not me.
Quite nonsensical (Or not very much so), yes, but fact is oddity requires suffering. Fact is that you can’t be different, or understand the true meaning of it, without suffering in one way or another. Because realizing that, fostering individualism, and honestly thinking individualistically is, inevitably, being different. And another fact to which I call the problem, is that we uneducatedly define it as a problem. I’m not implying that the problems that we define ourselves by don’t really exist; I just feel that they are not actually problems by definition, rather by some random, fictitious definition of society, or of ourselves. I am saying this from the vulnerable of standpoints, for I have built so many such definitions of my own throughout my innocent years. Rules I seriously lived by, that I was certain the rest of the world lived by, that with all honesty only existed in my private, distorted, chimerical universe. That evidently still exists. That even after recognizing it is not real, it’s impossible to completely eradicate, or ignore its presence through and through. But it’s still therapeutic even just being aware of the lie, and of the fact that it doesn’t really matter.
Admittedly, it is by far more difficult upholding a problematic image than just being a person with problems. When you acknowledge your human-beingness, with all that it entails (problems, principally), and if you know deep within who you are (subconsciously. I said deep within. I meant extremely deep within), then what difference does the normal person’s opinion make? Why, anyway to the stranger on the street you are utterly and dully normal, with an utterly dull, problem-free, normal life. Painfully unlike the complex, problem-ridden, far-from-normal life of this random stranger on the street, that in your other-side-of the-street eyes seem nothing less and nothing more than a run of the mill. (Actually, an actual such circumstance is sometimes very liberating. Look at the big picture, when it comes down to it both of you arbitrary pedestrians have not a single problem at all)
And if all human beings have problems, and we are all human beings, then hey – we are just like we wanted, just like everyone else. Forgive me for repeating myself, but again the problem stems from a very specific choice to make problems what they are, and call them problems, and impute a negative connotation to them. And then try to force their dimmer down to have normality in the spotlight, when it’s all just paradoxical ignorance.
A fine line separates those who are aware of that from those who are not. A finer line kicks out those who choose to ignore it. In the realms of one of the finest of lines are those enfeebled by the initial depression that such crude awareness calls upon. (And it always firstly depresses the minority who get there, because they are a minority). It’s one unaxiomatic thing to merely understand, but you have to internalize it all to the damn core in order to shake out all shades of depression. Those who don’t understand will remain forever melancholic. Those who can’t internalize are semi-impervious, forlorn only at times when it’s hard to consciously recall it all, and above it all how much none of this really matters.
I would be hesitant in saying that I’m among those who have not yet internalized. It’s the only stage that is not given to cognition. It’s given to the place where everything turns into nothing. You can’t force internalization. But I nonetheless wish for many people (some of which I actually know) to get here.
And I feel particularly sorry for those who will never experience adversity of any form, for all which they will never see, and for all which they opt – obliviously or not – to suppress. I can only imagine the relative ease of such day-to-day life, but when I think of the flash of a second before I’m no longer here, it is truly the tougher moments that had made me see beyond, or understand something I previously had not. There is not enough time, there are not enough such moments and not many people who are willing to go through them, to really understand everything.
Well, almost everything, let’s keep it real.
But you know, I don’t think this should even preoccupy us at all. Because it may very well be but a pointless burden. And because genuine or bogus, polite or rude, serious or trivial, what does it matter. Who gives a… Well, never mind.