May 31st, 2012by The Absurdist

The more honest you become with yourself, the less honest you can be with others, because you the more you sound like a nutcase.


I love my bycicle, it’s so worn and loyal. Getting rusty, and it’s a couple notches too big for my size which makes stopping and restarting a hassle and the front brake’s busted.

I daydream about getting straight out rammed by a monstrous car (then again what car isn’t a monster? Is there something uglier and more insulting than concrete?), a mangled bloody mess of broken nerves and metal lying on the pavement, a brainwave sliced by a cog.

An acrobatic improbable tumble where a pedal would somehow crack open my skull.  I find the idea romantic.

Cities are prisons for they trap us in the mirror of each other’s mediocrities. A true wanderer can’t be offended for the only way for an insult to work is to have a captive audience. When leaving is always an option any place is good.

Which is why wandering is forbidden.

Among other reasons, has more to do with time actually.

Tourism is to wandering what a slit throat is to a genuine smile.

I genuinely wonder why I just don’t up and leave, to live up my hoboesque fantasies till starvation gets the best of me. I have nothing to lose and certainly nothing to gain.

Fear of embarrasment is the most powerful human emotion. People rather live an unhappy life than risk humiliation. Very sad.

Here’s some more cheer for you all:

“He awoke each morning with the desire to do right, to be a good and meaningful person, to be, as simple as it sounded and as impossible as it actually was, happy. And during the course of each day his heart would descend from his chest into his stomach. By early afternoon he was overcome by the feeling that nothing was right, or nothing was right for him, and by the desire to be alone. By evening he was fulfilled: alone in the magnitude of his grief, alone in his aimless guilt, alone even in his loneliness. I am not sad, he would repeat to himself over and over, I am not sad. As if he might one day convince himself. Or fool himself. Or convince others–the only thing worse than being sad is for others to know that you are sad. I am not sad. I am not sad. Because his life had unlimited potential for happiness, insofar as it was an empty white room. He would fall asleep with his heart at the foot of his bed, like some domesticated animal that was no part of him at all. And each morning he would wake with it again in the cupboard of his rib cage, having become a little heavier, a little weaker, but still pumping. And by the midafternoon he was again overcome with the desire to be somewhere else, someone else, someone else somewhere else. I am not sad.” ( Jonathan Safran Foer, Everything is Illuminated)


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