Confessions of An Existentialist

Oh God, would it be too much to ask if... we could be the last tragedy on this world? It's when the sky eulogized all the shipwrecks on their last sunset. It's when prayers were so strong, but all were getting drown or swallowed. It's when promises get suspended in crushing tears. It's when the bees got extinct and the fireflies were graveyards one last time, as to the birds, they would orchestrate the biggest requiem you would see. And no, there's no flying cars or floating cities in that time. Just skyscrapers falling as storms get high, bridges burning as ocean and earth collide. And us, at the edge of a cliff on the last archipelago. No mourning or another morning. Just a well spent day at the end of all time— Would that be too much? —mj zyke Photo retrieved from tearofnight (IG)

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“I think that the world should be full of cats and full of rain, that's all, just cats and rain, rain and cats, very nice, good night.”

Moving on from things is a difficult process. A bad relationship, a bad choice, or a terrible past. The journey takes a toll on you. You break to pieces and wait for the only thing that can heal you to... well, heal you - time. Time heals all wounds, sure. But the process of coming out of your shell is like a gruesome warzone with more sacrifices than victories. Where your internals ache constantly, always at war with each other, as you try to get on with your life. If you're lucky enough, you come out stronger than ever at the right precise moment but at the slightest of odds, if you find yourself at the center of this god-forsaken hurt longer than that, the process becomes bizarre. You succumb to pathetic coping mechanisms, you find comfort in the worst of places, or worse, people and then you start creating yet another past you'd be trying to move on from for the rest of your life. The mysteries of the universe no longer allure you, the scientific discoveries no longer fascinate you and poetry and art just start to seem nothing but a glorification of a life not quite understood by rather sweet lunatics mainly because they themselves didn't quite understand the apathetic nature of apathetic humans. I've always wondered what makes us such complex beings. Why we've made something as simple and supposedly unconditional as love a ridiculous tapestry of our messed-up thoughts? Why do we sabotage a simple world with our own monstrous myths? Why do we insist on killing the one thing that makes us? Why we are taught that moving on from things is better than embracing them? And can we actually have anything at all or everything's just a mirage? The questions are unfathomable. Maybe everything that includes us is unfathomable. Maybe moving on is not someplace you arrive at, after all. It's just that we become okay with what we are and what we have rather than remembering everything we aren't. But then we're humans. And our consciousness tells us to create our own world, our own memories and keep on living. Maybe that's what keeps us going. Our ability to keep moving forward with our barrage of emotions than without it. And maybe that's what makes us strong. Maybe our experiences make us, rather than the other way round. And without those experiences, we'd be nothing.

Here I go again. Is there a time when one should give up on love?

People these days learn to cripple their minds. It’s mandatory, we are told, to be a part of the greater cluster of sheep, to have the same ideologies and beliefs, to nod to hackneyed ideas just because they were around enough to get the ultimate amount of nods. But in all our defences, it’s never really premeditated; it just ‘happens’. We learn to be limited, to be closed off by boundaries that are assumed to be ‘great’ just to make it to a mediocre life. Then we learn to be ‘satisfied’ with average because, well, why not? Everyone is doing it. Everyone is in that slightly dark place between desperation and being slightly over-enthused; why can’t we all do it? We train ourselves to overlook the concept of finding a place for ourselves in the world, instead, we become skilled at fitting in, we study all the ways to change who we are for the world. Yet we never really comprehend the reason we’re all made so unique (because whatever higher power knows we are), why we’re all given different sets of skills and how strangely we develop different personalities even though we were brought up in the same system as most around us. Everything about humanity, every cellular component, and every genetic variation was meant to sprout something special and rooted to a point of actual greatness and not based on the crude words of simple, obedient minds. The thing is, we all just assume we’re in a slightly desperate and at the same time, enthused place when in truth, we’re just hacking off time until something changes; never really realizing we pass the same way we lived - void of true meaning and without finding ourselves.

History is Written by Victors, which is why it’s boring. Art is written by the outcasts and that’s what makes it special. We’ve had so many tales on Gods, Goddesses, the winners and their victories, and they become so overwhelming that they might make you want to throw up. Life… isn’t about those victories and relentless successes, it’s rarely about your undying love and many times the good guys just fall flat and lose. The disappointments that follow later, the overwhelming feeling of defeat that creeps in and when one hits his lowest of the lows, the rockier bottoms underneath their rock bottoms is majorly what constitutes life. Success, for sure, is an event but it’s a rare one. The glorious Gods with their flaming locks and ivory skins might rule the history books but it’s the underdogs with their unexpected small victories that make life fascinating. When their will, their vulnerability is constantly tested and yet they find a way out of it, to survive, to win or defeated again? The battle is eternal and keeps on running till they reach the finality of their fate. The invincibility of the Gods and victors is boring. Art lies in the unpredictability and vulnerability. Art is in the Davids against their Goliaths, in Sisyphus against his Gods and in the jokers winning against their own jokes. Art is in empathy struggling to bloom in an apathetic world, a believer finding purpose in a Godless world. It's simply about defying all odds to fight and just not to win. This is why art wins over anything. It's borne out of real souls, their fires are kept alight by real blood and it helps us feel that even the misfits can sometimes create history even if they don't find a place on its pages. Art sure brings pain, it sure keeps you on the edge but rarely it keeps you under an illusion, which in my opinion, is the most beautiful thing in the world; to see the world as is.

People these days learn to cripple their minds. It’s mandatory, we are told, to be a part of the greater cluster of sheep, to have the same ideologies and beliefs, to nod to hackneyed ideas just because they were around enough to get the ultimate amount of nods. But in all our defences, it’s never really premeditated; it just ‘happens’. We learn to be limited, to be closed off by boundaries that are assumed to be ‘great’ just to make it to a mediocre life. Then we learn to be ‘satisfied’ with average because, well, why not? Everyone is doing it. Everyone is in that slightly dark place between desperation and being slightly over-enthused; why can’t we all do it? We train ourselves to overlook the concept of finding a place for ourselves in the world, instead, we become skilled at fitting in, we study all the ways to change who we are for the world. Yet we never really comprehend the reason we’re all made so unique (because whatever higher power knows we are), why we’re all given different sets of skills and how strangely we develop different personalities even though we were brought up in the same system as most around us. Everything about humanity, every cellular component, and every genetic variation was meant to sprout something special and rooted to a point of actual greatness and not based on the crude words of simple, obedient minds. The thing is, we all just assume we’re in a slightly desperate and at the same time, enthused place when in truth, we’re just hacking off time until something changes; never really realizing we pass the same way we lived - Void of true meaning and without finding ourselves.

"On the plus side: I no longer have to pretend I know what Kafkaesque means."

Usually, when a writer makes a character sketch, his greatest challenge is how to make his audience connect to him. Superman has always fascinated me. Originally how would anyone imagine a character like him? At first, this supreme powerful, invincible guy is as single-layered as a character can afford to be. But Jerry Siegel not only created him but made him equally relevant in pop culture that includes thousands of adaptations, renditions and whatnot. What works for a character like Superman? Simple. In a world full of fears and insecurities we look up to a man who's not only invincible but also finds a way to blend in and pretends he's one of us. Superman becomes a symbol of hope, that a man like him exists and saves the day even if it means taking bullets in the chest. And then I came across this critique of Superman's character from yet another maniac of a brain named Quentin Tarantino. It beautifully sums up how and why the character of Superman fits, blends in and then stands out in a genre that literally delves into struggles of making its heroes relatable. Happy Birthday, Superman! ❤️

Today is Superman's birthday. The man who is the epitome of muscle power, sharp brains and superhuman abilities, and arguably the greatest character to have ever come out of the comic-book universe.

Today is Superman's birthday.

"An essential characteristic of the superhero mythology is, there's the superhero, and there's the alter ego. Batman is actually Bruce Wayne, Spider-Man is actually Peter Parker. When he wakes up in the morning, he's Peter Parker. He has to put on a costume to become Spider-Man. And it is in that characteristic that Superman stands alone. Superman did not become Superman, Superman was born Superman. When Superman wakes up in the morning, he's Superman. His alter ego is Clark Kent. His outfit with the big red "S", that's the blanket he was wrapped in as a baby when the Kents found him. Those are his clothes. What Kent wears, the glasses, the business suit, that's the costume. That's the costume Superman wears to blend in with us. Clark Kent is how Superman views us. And what are the characteristics of Clark Kent? He's weak, he's unsure of himself... he's a coward. Clark Kent is Superman's critique on the whole human race."

My number one observation on this film is how aggressively radical it is in breaking past film form, and in my opinion, it is a better film for how little it seems to care for its criticism. We don't get apocalypse comedy mounted on a scale as large as this one and to me, it shows a psycho-cultural shift. Our entire generation has a very different perspective towards the world ending. We weren't born with the privilege of a less-polluted, less-exploited, less-doomed planet. To find out that even what is left of it might be annihilated into cosmic insignificance, garners an uncharacteristic tragicomic response. After all that we have done to each other, is apocalypse a punishment or relief?

What is cosmere if not poetry A contradiction dressed as mystery What is life if not the epitome of cruelty Why do we live if not for the irony It gifts just to snatch it away Opens doors only to baricade the way Yet we live anyway Love anyway Holding a single candle flame A simple kindness One order amongst the mess As a proof for its goodness And somehow it works

Moments. How do we see them? Or is it okay to experience them without actually seeing them? Our lives are nothing but these moments cumulatively impacting and forming our personal experiences, without actually touching our lives. We don't see them, they brisk through right past us, and in all certainty, they happen. And yet we don't really know if these moments are just these insignificant seconds we will never get back or they'd help shape and change our psyche in different directions. Even in the shallowest of seconds, I've seen leaves separating from their trees like they never liked being alive, bonds breaking like they never existed and love dying like it was never true in the first place. While we try to find answers in the deepest corners of our lives, only to realize they were all there in these little moments, the worst part is we'd only know about them once they're all dead and gone.

Don't make your permanent homes in temporary hideouts. Everything boils down to finding your home. People spend their lifetimes searching for it. The luckiest ones get it and others just lose their hope to find one, and settle in their hideouts. We attach too much value to our existence. Maybe the meaning of our existence actually lies in not searching for meaning, at all. Maybe it comes to you. Maybe our homes choose to come to us rather than the other way round. Maybe our homes have already walked right past us while we were hiding in our cute little hideouts. Or maybe they're waiting for us to come out. The scariest thing is, we would never know for sure. 4/4

Don't make your permanent homes in temporary hideouts. Bukowski says, go all the way or don't even start. But does a fraud world like ours really deserve our truest fights from our truest souls? How do we know? How can we know? You keep praying to your Gods because you believe in goodness. And then you find out the Gods are neither on your side nor do they believe in goodness. You constantly try to be a good person to the world and its people even if it's never reciprocated. But you believe in karma. And then you find out karma is just an illusion, a euphemism, a relief package handed out to damaged souls to heal their pain. 3/4

Don't make your permanent homes in temporary hideouts. There's a thing about hideouts, they seem fascinating. They comfort you like a home and for some reason they even look like one. They say home is a feeling, but feelings are fickle. How do you even know if a beautiful home you're staying in isn't just a soulless facade with hideous looking insides? For all I know, every home has a soul. The soul that resonates with ours and from where we derive our own meaning to our mediocre existence. I don't believe in the idea of soulmates but for sure I believe in the concept of homes. And homes don't really have to be people. In fact, mostly people would end up to be temporary hideouts that were vastly misunderstood to be homes. 2/4

Don't make your permanent homes in temporary hideouts. You wouldn't know when to stay and when to leave. You'd be embarassed, you'd be thrown around in corners, and you wouldn't even get to know when this god-forsaken massacre of your soul actually began. You'd be humiliated for staying too long and leaving too late. The guilt of it is terrible, it keeps ringing in your ears like a screeching note of a drunken sailor frantically trying to stow his sinking ship to a new shore only to find himself trapped in the middle of a frozen sea. 1/4