Fatiguing word mixTotal silence has seized me. I am content to be a total recluse. In the metro I wear earmuffs to reduce noise. I detest all the announcements aired in the metro. They are all tedious, repetitive, long-winded and stupid. Bureaucracy invades and vanquishes common sense. What is common sense? Maybe I am uncommon and I am out of touch with the common sense. Common sense embraces stating the obvious, teaching grandmas how to suck eggs and wipe her ass, exhorting the masses to practice manner, and forcing advertisement and unsolicited deemed entertainment upon customers’ sensory organs. Being in the minority is miserable. The moment is breaking. Conformity is worshipped. Individual style is touted by merchants, who profit on their success to lock each customer into a single cell in a most compact and efficiently laid out prison complex while deluding each inmate into believing he or she is a world apart from the masses. Cynics are not true individualists either, because all conformers are cynics. Revolt from one despised class to join the other. No matter how I describe myself – be it cynic, maverick, recluse, misanthropic, uncompromising loner – the smarting truth is that each of these types are abound in this place, and everywhere on the earth. Just unremarkable. Confronted by this dire harsh reality, parables are ridiculous and not funny. Lunch alone, dine alone. Read newspapers alone. Dismiss the spineless, pointless and artless articles scornfully. Balzac’s dark works scratch my sole with a rusty nail, and redeems the time. His praise of virtues and pure sentiments are passable, to say in the best way. Each day awaits night fall. Each night awaits day break. New green leaves on the trees put the questions: why are they growing strong but I am not? Will I be looking at the same trees next year, the year after, and …? I know the answers and therefore the questions suck. Young people’s brainless idle laughters anger me. Sayings about other people’s promiscuity anger and humiliate me. The problem of this place this time. The sickness is taking its toll on my income. No one is foolish enough to bet on a loser twice. If I owe duty to my clients to give them sound advice, truth to tell the soundest advice is engage someone else. Diffidence is a product. Of what? Humbleness is a youthful dream beaten up. I mean beaten down. Sad songs are sad. Happy songs are laughing in my face. Dark songs are aunt agony. Wordless music is the inoffensive co-existence. All about dis-, un-, im-. The word ‘negative’ sucks most. Nobody, nothing, never. Can we stop using these words in titles of song, film, book or online monikers? Not unhappy. Reject, disgust, deject, abject. Balzac said poets are persons who take great pain to match words, which is fatiguing (Note). On the eve of capitulation, in the wake of judgment. Appeal right is waived. No plea for mercy either. Camusian scorn is wankish. A place to hide away is the less ridiculous. If so many good things have gone, and other good things which could have come but didn’t and will never come my way again, father and mother, forgive me.
The pleasure of finding myself weird is denied me – persons are just weird in slightly different ways. Conformity in weirdness. Just too many people in this place, in this world and too much interaction, mutual awareness, information to and fro. Orwell might be right in the sense that ignorance is a blessing.
Note: “Oh, Mademoiselle, you love a poet! A man of that stamp is more or less of a Narcissus. Will he love you as he ought? A craftsman in words, always absorbed in fitting sentences together, is very fatiguing.” (Balzac, Modeste Mignon, p 116)