The Week 1789
Struggling Through With a Smile
“Another anonymous day in this abyss of self-destruction by violence against the one himself” – what a start already with daylight raging through the window, disturbing my closed eyes, waking my horrid/hideous/monstrous dreams to a notification of rainfall splashing down on the ground. Can we stay in bed, bond to the frame of despair, complain about the nonsense of that same complaining, closing our eyes to find flames blustering wild through our imaginations of a perfect world where – G. Orwell, 1984: “War is peace. Freedom is slavery. Ignorance is strength.” – The omnipresent leader called “Big Brother” Am I being watched while thinking? Does my phone camera scan my thoughts and expressions? Who knows. – There is a darkness that never goes away. It is like a room with no lights, where shadows move with no precise shape. They feel no empathy, no sadness or joy. Everything is flat and empty inside them. I conclude that – Sartre, Nausea: “I see clearly that I have nothing to do in this world, but I don’t see how I am leaving it.”. My thoughts are often filled with the fear of violence and violent images, where broken glass cuts through the skin while simultaneously laughing loudly with a distorted voice or sitting watching someone’s life being drained from them while they are excruciating with pain. These same thoughts are echoed by pleasure instead of emotion or empathy for others. Sartre, Nausea: “My thought is me: that’s why I can’t stop. I exist because I think… and I can’t prevent myself from thinking.”. I look at people and see objects to control and manipulate them, the cold satisfaction of observing their lies, hurts, or deceiving others like a puppet master pulling the strings. (Sartre, Nausea: “I felt suddenly alone, oh! So alone and so empty, and could not even remember who I was; the essential thing was the fact and the feeling of being without any quality, no longer human or not yet human.”) The pain of others doesn’t bother them; it excites them. They crave the chaos they cause, feeding off the fear and misery they bring. Their mind is a prison where they are both the warden and the inmate, trapped in a vicious cycle of dark desires and empty actions. It’s a place void of warmth, where the only light comes from the occasional flicker of a cruel, twisted satisfaction. Sartre, Nausea: “The consciousness of the person who entered the room was, at the bottom, the reflection of mine; it was what I betrayed when I turned to look at him, a figure conveying an idea, a thought, or an image, such as I might have myself.”.
Confessions of a Troubled Mind III –
–To Be Continued.
