Entity and Enigma

Emotions. What are they, really? They can be squeezed into words by the descriptive. But what are words? They are used for communication. And that is all. Communication. Human interaction. We could live without it. And yet, we need it, we thrive on it. It's sickening. How dependent all of us are.

How we need to be around other people to make ourselves feel normal. How a bully needs his subjects to rise above the rest of us. It all says the same thing. We are pathetic, dependent people that have no sense of originality. We feel the same things, because everybody else does. And when we come across something new, something we don't understand, we shun it.

Why? Because it is new to us. Because we do not understand it, because we have no control over it. And because of the lack of knowledge, it is immediately labeled evil.

And it hurts. When you're categorized underneath that column with the word that lashes out and bites you if you go near. That pierces the flesh of your soul, and nothing you can do can stop it. But... what is evil? What is it truly? If we were not so judgmental, so quick to criticize, then maybe, just maybe, we would find out.

Envy. Jealousy. Sloth. Lust. They're all emotions, feelings. Things that course through our minds, and bodies and souls. They wash away the other feelings that make us happy, or depressed. They just are. Do they live? Why do they manipulate us so, in order to show themselves, express the longing, the desire to be acknowledged, instead of being stuffed down into the small, dark cave that no human dares search for?

But what is life? What does it mean to live? Outside of these four walls that our society plastered around us, the heated metal that burns us if we try to escape them. It's an enigma. Something that nobody wishes to face, to acknowledge. So they shut it out. But what good does it do? It will still be there in the morning. Next week...

... five years from now.

It will always be there, for those who wish to try to climb the never ending walls, and gain entrance to this entity we all fear so much.

Battlefields are interesting things. They follow you no matter where you run. They're there, they're watching; they're haunting. And how does it feel? To be left by those loved, and forgotten to the long lost confines of death and depression. There's nothing we can do about it. Nothing.

But no matter. Perhaps nothing has a meaning. Perhaps it is a sign; a symbol.

And how do humans go on when there is nothing left? When the only thing that they hold dear is the pain and deceit that plagues their hearts and minds and souls? What then?

Why?

That is the question we ask. Why. And why do we ask it? Because there's nothing else to ask. There's nothing to feel, nothing to know. So, why? Why does it hurt? Why does it bleed? Why does it mean so much, when it feels like so little? Why are the words twisted into something that should not be. That cannot be. And then there is what. Beyond all the words, beyond all the lights, and colours and questions, there is a light. The ultimate question. And what is that question?

Why?

When you think about it, it's almost humorous. To not have seen it. To not have known. There are so many people out there... people who know, but pretend they don't. Why is that? Why do they hide from the inevitable? The questions keep coming, and the answers keep lingering, circling each other just out of reach, a deadly circle, a habit no one can break. But why, why is this? Do you know?

I don't.

Salutations to the little men on Mars, perhaps they'll know? Perhaps they won't. What difference will it make? To get an answer, and to not. Does the superior intellect of man so easily crumble at the sheer loneliness of a single question as it slips into the morning's night.

Secrets. Morbid little things, really. Malicious and cold they hide behind a mask of indifference, beckoning to you sweeteningly, like a chocolate bar to a diabetic. Disgusting. Absolutely disgusting.

Weaving a web of lies, misunderstood truths, carefully thought out words and pictures to make you think. But what does it mean? Why? Why does it hurt to think upon? Simple and yet so complex. Quiet but still so loud. What are they? Oxymorons? Oxidized morons? They make my head spin with an unknown intensity, like a brick to the proverbial heads of the general.

Truths behind truths, words behind words; emotions behind faces. What do they mean? Why do they mean it?

Death.

What is it? Is it an omen, is it an atrocious tragedy?

Is it friend or foe?

It comes on time, slipping between the hidden folds of fate, dancing around the frayed edges of life, ever escaping Logic's grasp. It mutilates humanity into that of the greedy hands of sorrow and cupidity, warping our identities to something considered ugly. But is it? Does it not shine with an unseen beauty? Cold and uncaring, feeding on the writhing and suffering of others.

Truly; what a malicious world.

And when the entities and truths align, something new is forged. A kind of enigma, you could call it. Its apathetic lips kiss the warmth and half-truths goodbye as they fade into the nothingness that is humanity. A legitimately disgusting trait, a notorious sin among the humans.

“She was a sentimental prude, she knew it, and used it to her ability. To be malicious and manipulative was her life. Apathetic and yet caring. Unique in her own way. Unique until the end.”

Ends.

What is an ending? What does it do? What does it mean? Is there no special meaning to a story that comes to an end, to the pages that lead you to a happy place, a place where nothing can go wrong. Endings are just new beginnings, and new beginnings are the frayed edges of an old end. Perhaps an end that did not work out.

Why is the end such a bad thing for humans? Why do we get sad when something ends? Because we live through the characters.

Perhaps it is a way to avoid them, and our manipulations.

Sometimes I hate being me; I hate looking like someone who once was, but am no more. Sometimes I hate who I've become: someone who can't live up to other's expectations. I hate being looked at with sadness, as a memory floats through those eyes that peer at me. A memory of someone else, and not me. I'm just a memory; a beacon into the past.

The world truly is a cruel beast; twisting reality into one, big mess. It stares you in the face, but you don't know that until it's too late.

And with every monster comes a master; Life is its master, and it rides it without sympathy or pity.

In a masked shadow it wreaks tears of malice on the lives of the innocent. Time is an equally vicious beast, tearing the fake happiness we hide behind. Murdering the safety nets that guard us from the chaos. But what are we hiding from?

Evil, Hatred, Pain and Suffering. They are the only rules in this game of greater and lesser. Life and Death.

But what is life, what is it to live? A real life, not the one that was so carelessly laid out for us to follow. How do we know that we are living? And that we aren't just dead people, with bodies and brains?

Emotions. What are they? Simply another means of torture and torment? Or perhaps something our minds have fabricated to fill the empty space that lingers. The need; the desire our hearts yearn for? To fulfill the task that no other can?

What is love, what is hate? To hate is to love, and to love is to hate. Why does it make sense only when I stare at these blank walls, and not in the outside world where people would pretend to be happy while they bleed inside?

They say only twenty percent of your pain is felt by your body, and that the other eighty percent is masked. What if there is no such thing as pain? What if it is only something in your mind, that your body believes to be true? What then? They say it hurts. Not really. Pain doesn't hurt. Not when it's the only thing that keeps you sane. When it's the only thing telling you that you're alive every day, when nobody else will.

And what if tears were only raindrops?

Not all things in life are happy. Nobody's life is easy to live. Nobody wanted this: to be thrust into this dark abyss. The thing we call a world; this pathetic thing — existence — called a life.

And where does it end? When the days stop turning into nights? When things stop spinning, and things no longer exist?

A lie. Everybody owns a lie. No matter how small, or innocent, it's still a lie.

My lie?

Life; Life is my lie.

When the lights blur, and the candles dim, when the wind starts to howl and the pain goes numb: That is when we know it has begun.

When things dull and people lose their insightfulness. What then? What do we do when all the logic in the world goes dry? And when dependence is dropped, and we become something we're not? What do we do then?

They are meaningless, these thoughts of mine. Meaningless and without time, order.

Paradoxes are my world.

Just me and my cynical humor.