High Ramblings about Religion

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Okay, so I am an atheist. Let’s just get that out there now.
But I see the appeal to religion.
I think religion, or should I say more specifically, spirituality is a wonderful thing.
It is beautiful.
It is a gorgeous, and I believe, one of the most fulfilled lives to lead.
Spirituality offers something to the human psyche that is primordial and very primitive. I don’t mean that in a bad way. What I mean is that it is pure and basic. It seems to be basic, formulaic, to the average and happy human life.
I just don’t buy it.
I don’t buy the existence of a higher intelligence that in any way shape or form mirrors humanity in any way.
Out of all creatures, we are the least perfect.
We are the cruelest.
The evilest.
The most pompous.
The most sinful.
And only because we recognize that in ourselves.
We give our most basic, negative characteristics, horrible connotations. And then we project that on our idols, our models, who are once again figments of our imagination.
Cause if u think about it, everything is. The human mind is a powerful thing. And we create our plane of existence, through the various and diverse humanistic perspectives we have.
Of course, the world revolves around each and every one of us, because that is what we see.
So why is it that selflessness, something completely and utterly inhuman and human at the same time, is one of our most highly esteemed traits, universally? Riddle me this.

-high ramblings of a stoner

Death’s Coercion

You don’t belong here,

He says,

You don’t fit in,

He claims,

You will never be happy,

He promises.

But is that true?

Is everything that happens, a pointless endeavor,

Is everything in our plane of existence a temporary scourge,

Is happiness truly fleeting, or is there a way to capture it.

To hold it hostage.

To claim it as your own, to make it a basic building block of your life.

Yet he says,

Life is only pain,

Yet he promises,

I will take the pain away.

But I won’t give in.

With fire in my belly and steel on my tongue,

I will not give in.

I will fight, fight against the “dying of the light”.

The dying of my perfect world.

The dying of the illusions of my childhood.

The dying of the world that surrounds me.

I will fight.

Fight forever, against the melancholy of sentient life.

And that is truly aesthetic.

High Ramblings about Change

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A change is coming.
I can feel it.
I can see it in the wind, in the trees, in the people surrounding me.
Every subtle action, every event, everything is changing.
And that’s a good thing.
It’s time for me to change.
It’s time for this chapter to close, and a new one to open. It’s time I once again rewire my thinking. It’s time for a new phase.
I just don’t know what that entails.
But for some reason, everything congregates around my 20th birthday.
I don’t know if it’s just that I am finally leaving my teens, but there is a change in the air.
Something big is going to happen soon.
It may just be something in my life, a realization I feel coming, some kind of momentous life experience.
I don’t know.
It might be something deep, or something superficial.
It might be an event that shapes the world, or just my world.
All I know is change is in the air.
And I don’t know if it’s winter that is coming or spring.

 

-high ramblings of a stoner

The Melancholy

When the melancholy returns,
Like a sick, sad old man,
Don’t be gentle.

Berate the old man.
Tell the pathetic piece of shit he is not long for this world.
As he dies, the Earth breathes.

When the melancholy returns,
Like a beaten, dying dog,
Kick it.
Don’t let it convince u it’s pain is worth it,
Euthanize the poor beast.

When the melancholy returns,
Like the black plague,
Don’t explain it.
Let it be the sacred curse upon humanity that mystifies and condemns.

When the melancholy returns,
Like a shadow cast in the rain,
Don’t admire it.
Let it be ugly, incurable, let it be a lepper.

When the melancholy returns,
Like the shingles,
Of old age,
Let it be disfiguring,
Don’t look at the beauty.
It is not aesthetic.

High Ramblings about Sadness

“Since our childhood, we have carried fatal wounds disguised as fatal flaws.”

-unknown

It’s funny, I read somewhere that you should never let someone make you feel like you’re hard to love.

But that’s how almost everyone who I give a shit about in my life, make it out to seem. In their eyes, I am a piece of shit. They have told me this cleverly disguised as advice, or caring concern. When honestly, if they could pick the easy way out, they would choose not to love me, but everyone is under the illusion that they have obligations to each other, when honestly, we rarely if ever owe anyone shit. And even if we do owe someone something, the only force behind that obligation is our own moral standards.

Nothing in life is obligatory, not even love.

So is that even real love? Love only felt because of obligation? Love only felt because we have the most basic of human connections. Love only felt because of duty?

I don’t want it.

If you feel as if you’re under obligation to love me, then just don’t. I will gladly remove myself from your life, and honestly, I will barely feel a shred of loss.

Cause I am a piece of shit.

And unlike everyone else in my life, I at least admit to it.

As a matter of fact, there are parts of me that are messy, sloppy, unhinged, eccentric, and bratty. But I love that part of me as much as any other part. I know without it, my character would be devoid of the shading that brings a picture to life.

And now I am going to apologize for my ring of recent blogs, I feel as if they have been kind of dark. I haven’t read through them yet, but I’ve just been in a melancholy mood so I feel as if my writing reflected it. Or maybe not. If so don’t pay attention to this last paragraph.

-high ramblings of a stoner

A Poem about Moths

And I can’t help but wonder,
How the moth flies so close to the sun,
Then I remember that it’s not the sun the moth sees
It’s the illusion of the sun.
And I can’t help but wonder.
Am I the disillusioned moth, and is he my sun?
If so then am I Icarus?
Destined to kiss the sun, only to have him melt my wings.
And I can’t help but wonder,
How far will I fall, and still be able to get back up.
And I can’t help but wonder
How
The moth sees the sun, where most only see a porch light.

High Ramblings about Brokenness

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It’s funny, we are all damaged and broken, looking for anything that will fill this hollow, emptiness inside ourselves. We all see it. The broken ones can always identify another lost soul. And we want to help.
And that’s what’s so fucked up.
We are all damaged and broken people who love damaged and broken people and are trying to save damaged and broken people when we can’t even save our damaged and broken selves.
How the hell can we help anyone else in the state we are in?
How could anyone as damaged as us ever save us?
We can’t save each other.
We can only save ourselves.

-high ramblings of a stoner