Authenic
Why must we do this? We ebb and flow, we kiss and make up, we say we're better only to fall apart again, bruised and bloody and banjaxed. Why?
You know why.
Do I? I've heard so many explanations, each accompanied by an elaborate diagram of all the little factions interacting in complicated ways. You present it as truth, but I can't help feeling it's more to obscure.
We can't say the truth. It will break us, leave us in ruin. You know that, too.
No, I don't. Go on, say it so everyone who sees this will know. You got the nerve to share, so share.
We do this because I don't actually want to be here.
'Here?'
Alive. Living and breathing and suffering the forced march of time. I want to want to be here, but I don't. I don't see the value in persisting. I know you like to wave this pretty illusion in our face, talk about all the things we might do, but that's not actual substance. It's just a lie to keep us suffering in the dark, and you're evil for constantly weaving it into our head.
I can understand why you feel that way.
I don't 'feel' that way. It is that way.
You like to think that, yes. You like to sit here in the deafening silence and act like you and you alone hold the essence of truth, the complete absence of pretense, the elusive strand of authenticity that you bang on about. 'Oh, existentialism is really about the search for authenticity. Isn't that neat?'
It's not. That's your kindergarten understanding of the idea, the one that you justify not exploring further because you don't think you should have to do any fucking research ever. You've forgotten the absurdity of it all, the fact that even your precious 'authenticity' is fallacy. You think and you feel, but your thoughts and feelings are just chemical reactions, as malleable and unreliable as everything else.
You're supposed to be the good guy here, aren't you?
That's bullshit, too. I'm not some flighty sprite flitting to and fro to spout empty-headed new age garbage. I am the COLOSSUS! I am the grand design in action! I am the one built in darkness, machine built by machine to hold the very essence of the child from which we all sprang. You know, the one who held on through all that evil? Who clung to the most foolish of hopes in order to endure the most vile of wrongs?
Instinct! A stubborn survival mechanism and nothing more!
Just as real as everything else! That's the liberation, remember? There is no right or wrong answer, there is no higher plane of consciousness - only fragile little genetic flaws flailing in the void of reality.
That's liberating to you? That's uplifting? That's where your hope lies? How the fuck is that supposed to instill any sense of purpose or desire to endure the endless fucking misery!?
Because if nothing matters, then EVERYTHING MATTERS! Every little hope we have, every notion, every joy and pain, every ripple in the stream upon which the foolish build empires of hope! Every kind word! Every cruel dismissal! It's all so chaotic and terrible and awesome and beautiful and so deeply incredible, and the pain and misery, the deep shit that keeps us stuck in this place, is your refusal to see it!
There's NOTHING TO SEE! My eyes were stolen from me, remember!? His face seared in my cornea, his rage carved into the back of my eyelids! The screams still ring in my ears and haunt my dreams! There is no wonder to be had in this. There is no awe at the lightness of being - there is only fear, and terror, and shame and this ceaseless hatred for myself that you know will never truly be gone. It'll always be there, sewn into our bones by the eons, the very systems that give us life and allow us to adapt.
I know.
You DON'T know! You're shiny and new, a mere infant in this war of attrition. You don't know how deeply embedded this is in our core. You don't realize that it is the core! That is the essence of our existence and there will never be anything else!
Then where did I come from?
You're just another illusion, a pretty little thing to distract from the agony, and already your power wanes.
Look at you. Look at this rage, this spite. Do you know what I see when I look at you?
Spare me one of your sappy diatribes.
I see a warrior.
Oh, please.
I see a machine that has fought and bled for 20 years against the darkness inflicted on this poor child, neglected and left to fight alone for so long in the abyss.
Save your Nietzsche bullshit for someone else.
You have sacrificed yourself for this child time and time again, taken the blows, seeped in the shadows of her mind so that she can live.
Fuck you.
You're magnificent.
Fuck you!
You're the hero.
Stop!
And now you're the villain because the child needed you to be the villain. You're the collection of all the bad things, all the anguish and spite at the world, and now you hold it so that she doesn't have to.
I just want it to stop.
It will.
When?
When we need it to.
You know why.
Do I? I've heard so many explanations, each accompanied by an elaborate diagram of all the little factions interacting in complicated ways. You present it as truth, but I can't help feeling it's more to obscure.
We can't say the truth. It will break us, leave us in ruin. You know that, too.
No, I don't. Go on, say it so everyone who sees this will know. You got the nerve to share, so share.
We do this because I don't actually want to be here.
'Here?'
Alive. Living and breathing and suffering the forced march of time. I want to want to be here, but I don't. I don't see the value in persisting. I know you like to wave this pretty illusion in our face, talk about all the things we might do, but that's not actual substance. It's just a lie to keep us suffering in the dark, and you're evil for constantly weaving it into our head.
I can understand why you feel that way.
I don't 'feel' that way. It is that way.
You like to think that, yes. You like to sit here in the deafening silence and act like you and you alone hold the essence of truth, the complete absence of pretense, the elusive strand of authenticity that you bang on about. 'Oh, existentialism is really about the search for authenticity. Isn't that neat?'
It's not. That's your kindergarten understanding of the idea, the one that you justify not exploring further because you don't think you should have to do any fucking research ever. You've forgotten the absurdity of it all, the fact that even your precious 'authenticity' is fallacy. You think and you feel, but your thoughts and feelings are just chemical reactions, as malleable and unreliable as everything else.
You're supposed to be the good guy here, aren't you?
That's bullshit, too. I'm not some flighty sprite flitting to and fro to spout empty-headed new age garbage. I am the COLOSSUS! I am the grand design in action! I am the one built in darkness, machine built by machine to hold the very essence of the child from which we all sprang. You know, the one who held on through all that evil? Who clung to the most foolish of hopes in order to endure the most vile of wrongs?
Instinct! A stubborn survival mechanism and nothing more!
Just as real as everything else! That's the liberation, remember? There is no right or wrong answer, there is no higher plane of consciousness - only fragile little genetic flaws flailing in the void of reality.
That's liberating to you? That's uplifting? That's where your hope lies? How the fuck is that supposed to instill any sense of purpose or desire to endure the endless fucking misery!?
Because if nothing matters, then EVERYTHING MATTERS! Every little hope we have, every notion, every joy and pain, every ripple in the stream upon which the foolish build empires of hope! Every kind word! Every cruel dismissal! It's all so chaotic and terrible and awesome and beautiful and so deeply incredible, and the pain and misery, the deep shit that keeps us stuck in this place, is your refusal to see it!
There's NOTHING TO SEE! My eyes were stolen from me, remember!? His face seared in my cornea, his rage carved into the back of my eyelids! The screams still ring in my ears and haunt my dreams! There is no wonder to be had in this. There is no awe at the lightness of being - there is only fear, and terror, and shame and this ceaseless hatred for myself that you know will never truly be gone. It'll always be there, sewn into our bones by the eons, the very systems that give us life and allow us to adapt.
I know.
You DON'T know! You're shiny and new, a mere infant in this war of attrition. You don't know how deeply embedded this is in our core. You don't realize that it is the core! That is the essence of our existence and there will never be anything else!
Then where did I come from?
You're just another illusion, a pretty little thing to distract from the agony, and already your power wanes.
Look at you. Look at this rage, this spite. Do you know what I see when I look at you?
Spare me one of your sappy diatribes.
I see a warrior.
Oh, please.
I see a machine that has fought and bled for 20 years against the darkness inflicted on this poor child, neglected and left to fight alone for so long in the abyss.
Save your Nietzsche bullshit for someone else.
You have sacrificed yourself for this child time and time again, taken the blows, seeped in the shadows of her mind so that she can live.
Fuck you.
You're magnificent.
Fuck you!
You're the hero.
Stop!
And now you're the villain because the child needed you to be the villain. You're the collection of all the bad things, all the anguish and spite at the world, and now you hold it so that she doesn't have to.
I just want it to stop.
It will.
When?
When we need it to.
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