In ‘Doubt’, I wrote a bit about a shift in my writing– from a pseudonym to my name. Thanks to this, you’ll find my older works to be a bit more direct as I didn’t have to worry about it being tied back to myself.
I used to press my pen onto the ground without worrying about the weight of my words. After all, there was no head to bear this weight. It seems that I’ve been remiss, forgetting that I gravitate towards it– a mantle that rests on my shoulders.
I believe that I have written enough for me to refer to myself as a writer. If I can’t call myself a writer, then would it not be an affront towards those who walk on this shared path? Even then, this recognition is one that I grant myself– legitimacy proven by my craft.
I find some humor in this, as I have fashioned myself another identity. A title that I can introduce myself with. I planted a bed of flowers and watered these seeds, my expertise and skills that served as my personal path. Yet the grass blossomed first, this hobby becoming a branch of this path.
A person once told me that the genre of my writing is ‘Literacy Fiction’. A genre that I’ve to reject, as my truth cannot be that of imagination– it is a lived truth. I recognize that my writing befits the nature of ‘Literacy’, but I must respectfully discard the rest.
Respect is to be repaid by a similar grace. Beasts can adhere to this, and I am no lesser than them. To act otherwise is to stain my name, sullying my works.
If I am to designate the nature of my writing, then the first word shall be “Reflective”. Each word serves as a reflection of myself. Each of my essays serve as a shard of myself, so tell me– does a mirror not have a reflection?
The second word shall be “Philosophical”. Each essay represents the cumulation of my thoughts on a particular topic. A stance that has been tried by myself, to serve as an explanation towards the facets of life. I may not recognize myself as a philosopher, but I can recognize this trait within my writing.
I’ve only written two for now, as the weight I grant these words is akin to a pillar. I may erect more of these pillars, but that’s a matter for the future. I have no intent on forcing their creation, to place them haphazardly.
I’d rather break my fingers than to deign myself to such sloppy work. You’ll find that my writing is reminiscent of a conversation. In this, I have to concur– it is a conversation. Yet, who am I speaking to? I don’t know. A conversation is meant to be two-sided, and so I find myself playing both sides.
After all, my audience consists of people, making them a confusing one. They may occasionally speak at times, but it’s a response that must be prompted. I don’t like prompting it, as I see it as forced. I recognize the possibility of this audience being non-existent, one that I mourn.
With this in mind, their nature is of a wall– a listener. I can’t lean on these walls, lest they fall on me– quashing my spirit entirely. To trust them is a delusion that I reject, as there is no demonstrated merit in doing so. I may accept this nature of theirs, but I cannot wash this sense of disappointment off.
With this, I call into question the legitimacy of your role as an audience. I recognize that you hold no obligation to give a response, thus I can only be disappointed– nothing more.
After all, my feelings are as one-sided as this conversation. In the grand scheme of things, it won’t really affect anything– comfort yourself with that.
Ofcourse, you may object to this with the claim that these are unreasonable expectations. But, you’ll find my words to be much sharper as a result of this. You may ignore my feelings, but you can’t reject them in the absence of imposition.
That claim is one that I reject, as I have written about my desire for these responses, yet silence was given instead– a sentiment that has echoed multiple times.
I didn’t force you into this title nor can you force me to think otherwise. You chose it for yourself, and so I recognized that choice– the seed of it germinating to this.
By staking this claim, do you take me to be a fool? You see, my patience is a developing trait. A trait that is strained by these developments– one that this claim wants to tear. I’ve already grown weary of trying to encourage others to respond to my essays.
Elsewhere, I may soften and demand less. Here, I cannot afford to be soft in the slightest. My predecessors were committed to their craft, and it is their seriousness that I hope to match.
I have given effort, and I am not above the pitfalls of the common man– scorn. Just as I have given my effort for these pieces, I ask for an audience to match it in return. After all, does an author not pick his audience?
Sigh, I recognize that some of us have given a genuine response– even if it was once. While my heart may hold you accountable to an even higher standard, I reject that premise. You’ve already met my internal logic, and I refuse to change it whimsically to fulfill my greed.
Before I can indict others, I must sentence myself. I know my crimes, this knowledge allows me to hold myself accountable to a higher standard. As much I hate a person’s acts, I loathe my self-hypocrisy even more.
I have no qualms about renouncing my writing in its entirety to ward this fear off. I wrote each word with a level of integrity, to fail in this regard is no different than denying my own words. I’ve no intent on allowing myself to benefit from the tenets that I’ve violated. If anything, I’d burn it all.
If I’m willing to cast these ashes into the wind, what does that say about the lengths I’d go for the sake of holding myself accountable? Either I put out this fire or I remain to suffer the burn of my actions, to atone– to at least make an effort.
As for the rest of you, what makes you so different from a passerby?
Stepping aside from my position as author, what’s the point of challenging this? My reactions are conditional, making you the one who decides which of my words apply to you. Skimmers aren’t concretely affected by it, as they’ve seldom had the time or interest to read it in full– let alone respond.
My writing is prejudiced against them, but their ignorance serves as a virtue. Ofcourse, I’m still disappointed in them, but that sense arises from their manner of reading. This same virtue can be invoked for those reading for the first time. The only type of person that would be held accountable here is a person who read my pieces fully and chose not to respond.
My words become sharp when that person wants to challenge the verdict established by their own precedent. Now, does this person exist and are they the ones being addressed here? They exist as I still breathe, so you’ll find the conditions for this scorn to be demanding.
Respectfully, none of you are worthy enough to even challenge my words. I’ve come to the conclusion that I’ll inevitably be disappointed in my audience. Honestly, I don’t blame people, as my standards are fundamentally flawed in a few ways.
The first flaw is my lack of knowledge. After all, I don’t even know my audience– leaving me to set conditions for them to recognize on their own. The second flaw is not recognizing nuance, the different variables of a person that differ to each other. Sigh, I don’t want to leave room for others to slip away. Nuance alone is a secondary flaw in this case.
It’s not like I don’t disappoint myself as well. Over the course of writing, I’ve disappointed myself more than you could’ve disappointed me in this lifetime. So you’ll find it to be nothing new in my eyes.
I can accept and reconcile the fact that I’m disappointed in myself, so rest assured that I can do it for others. There’s more that I could write about disappointment itself, but that is a topic for the future.
The voices of the living are faint, so I turn to the dead— their voices acting as a source of respite. Figures entombed in history, leaving a legacy behind for me to converse with. Their dialogues and ideas were proven with their lives, their words echoing a lifetime.
Their commitment is one that I find myself to be lacking. I don’t know if I’ll ever reach their level. Perhaps I’ll think about this moment on my deathbed, to either confirm or reject this thought of mine.
The living may withhold their voices, but the interred shall provide me with this solace instead.
Conversations exist when a response is given– even if my voice or the voices of the departed respond. I prefer to think of myself in three phrases: the past, the present, and the future. Three different voices that speak to each other, creating a cycle of weight that reinforces itself with each resolution.
I recognize that my writing is consistent in its weight, an ever-pressing one. I know that this trait is one that stifles people, but it’s become natural to me. In my eyes, words serve as an extension of my will. They aren’t meant to be written lightly, to be taken back at a moment’s notice– they are commitments.
They’re meant to be bulwarks, for me to maintain a stance with a good defense and offense. It’s a reason why I prefer linking my works together, my thoughts and ideas remain consistent and I can evolve them over time.
This weight also serves the purpose of binding me, as my words are no different from a binding covenant for me to follow– essentially my ethos. I am a man of my words, and I intend to follow that mindset to the end.
Apart from that, I believe that people can’t tell if I’m being serious about certain matters or not. I feel like I’ve tarnished my image with joviality, undermining the legitimacy of my words. So, this weight serves as a counterweight to the actions that I partake outside of my ink.
I’m afraid of losing this weight, that I’ll ascend without it. It’s become a part of my identity, so my writing for the most part shall carry this weight by default. Unfortunately, I recognize that I can’t wear this armor forever. So it’s for the best that I don some robes before this armor is stripped from me.
As you may or may not tell by now, I am a lonely individual. In the past, I used to avoid dealing with this explicitly since my writing wasn’t established enough to deal with this topic. If I wrote too early, I’d have to deal with people thinking that I’d fly like Icarus to burn this feeling away. An interpretation that my pride and dignity reject.
Apart from that, it appears that I’m a victim of mental dissonance– believing that this trait is a shameful one for myself. It’s odd, since I have no reason to be ashamed of being alone in the first place. That and the fact that I didn’t hold this against others, making it an irregularity. Looking back on this, I feel like chuckling at my ignorance.
People tend to assume that loneliness is binary, that a person is either surrounded by people or they are completely alone. It’s a concept that’s been flattened by this misconception. While I may be lonely, my life is not devoid of people entirely.
Some of us might ignore those people when we consider ourselves, referring to themselves as completely alone. I find that to be a disservice to those select few, an act that besmirches me.
After all, making this claim is a choice that solidifies a person’s loneliness by rejecting company. It closes the loop and essentially reinforces a person’s feelings, becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy.
In my eyes, I see that the bond I have with these people is no different than my breath and the frigid cold– a passing one that’s easily erased. In this sense, I am alone– as my breath fails to carry me any further.
In my writings, you might’ve noticed that when I write about eyes– I tend to leave mine open. The symbolism behind that is that I see everything, that I can’t avert my eyes away from what’s in front of me.
This metaphorical trait is from a habit that I have in real life. A person has their main vision and peripheral vision, the focus and surroundings. I prefer not having eye contact with people for no reason, and so I direct my eyes away from them. The sight given to me by my peripheral vision is enough.
This habit of mine isn’t the perfect one, but for the most part– it works. I may not see you, but nonetheless– I recognize you. It seems that I’m suited to be an observer, both my eyes and lack of presence serve as proof.
I don’t blame others for this, for I know my nature. Over the years, I’ve observed that those I know seem to have a short memory. I just wrote it off as my memory being better, but I’m the common factor in this web.
Even with this realization, this shall not be the last time. It takes a monumental effort for a person to change themselves, and it takes an even greater effort to change someone else. If I am remembered for who I am, then it’s fine. If I am not, then that’s also fine.
My hands may cling to this idea, yet I’ve already released it. My name may fade, but my deeds shall endure. Everything but myself shall be remembered by the places where I’ve walked. Perhaps even that may not remain, a future that I accept.
In this, loneliness takes on a second tone– one of existence. After all, my name has already faded for some of us. I have become no different than a ghost, whose touch only affects objects.
For this final tone, I’ll write through this surface– for you’ll find that I’m truly lonely in this sense. Behind this door, you’ll only find God and myself. This one tends to linger around me persistently, a shadow that roams in my steps. There’s nothing for me to defend, as it’s an observation– my words becoming its record.
I don’t have to remember this, as this feeling makes its presence known with everything I do. Envy is an emotion that I abhor, but I now understand why people fall into it. I’ve said it before, that this society is not of people– but groups.
I may be in these groups, but I do not belong to them. I may see, but I do not act. I may exist everywhere, but I belong nowhere. I have no plans to enjoy the outside as there’s no one to go out with. I have to solicit feedback and opinions from others as I have no one of my own to ask.
I see it all around me– possibilities that can’t exist, a sight that genuinely hurts my soul. It hurts enough for me to laugh at this half-life of mine. I can’t tell if I should feel hurt or not, a sense of loss for something I’ve never experienced.
Sigh, it seems that I’ve hurt myself– forgetting that the edges of my words don’t discriminate. A wound whose reopening has made this writing crimson, blood replacing ink. Let me finish quickly before it dries out.
I may think in systems, but you’ll find that I have no system to relieve myself– to act as support. You see, a man must surely belong somewhere– and so I belong to myself. I am responsible for my own relief, a role that I’ve taken up most of my life. If I don’t go to hell, then who will?
I may break, but it is my prerogative to rebuild from what remains. I don’t have to worry about lacking parts, as I can fashion them from experience and memories. Even if there are no original parts left of me, I recognize myself. Parts may come and go, but identity remains.
Over the years, this loneliness has become something that I am desperate to break. This desire of mine is something that I have to control. I can’t burn this rancor, for its smoke still exists. Instead, I choke it with the earth.
For that, I must give an apology. I may try to see everything, but I can’t see a person’s heart. Even if I don’t realize it at the moment, I recognize my mistakes with some delay. I must make amends for this lack of self-control, this being my remedy.
I can’t deal with all of my thoughts and emotions at once, it’d suffocate me. I may carry myself differently, but I’m still human. And so, I put these thoughts and emotions into drawers for me to suppress and deal with. A side-effect is that they might come out all at once.
I also can’t avoid this topic, it’s my nature to define myself before others make their own meanings. A blade may cut, but it’ll only cut once. I’ve anchored it to my writing, allowing me to cut it again and again– to eventually kill this sense of loneliness.
I feel like I’ve done an autopsy of my social life, one whose body lives– a spirit that died years ago. And now I must ask for your silence. It’s ironic, but I insist as this is my trait to deal with– an internal matter.
Your heart may change, but I’ve already accepted everything– even this loneliness of mine. All of these are a part of myself. The only part that I refuse to accept is that I cannot defeat this inner demon.
It is beyond grotesque for me to use the death of one of my shards to ask for alms, a view that I revile and loathe in absolutes. While I am desperate, it is within my means. In my eyes, it is no different from manipulating a person’s heart, a heart that’ll eventually move back into its abode.
Regardless of the truth, I have made a choice– unequivocally reject it. From the moment that I committed to this, my eyes moved on– from this possibility of change. If a person were to change their view of me solely from this piece, then I must reject them. To accept this misplaced empathy is no different than breaking the mirror.
It has to exist in some capacity, as it is a human trait. For me, it is akin to a scissor– snipping away at this blindfold covering my eyes. If I am given a choice between keeping this affliction or being free from it– then you’ll find the scissors in my hand.
A fish cannot survive on land just as I can’t survive without this disease being somewhere. I want to laugh at this, as it seems that we’ve chosen each other– an absurd bond. With this, I leave the pen to my future, as the past and present have already written their parts.
Their ink has been spent and it is a fool’s prospect to leave it at that. As long as I breathe, there’ll be more ink. I may not be a villain, but I still aim to live as long as one. This seems like a good time to drink, but I can’t get drunk.
I’ve been repeating a mistake turned habit now, and I think it’s finally time to retire it. I like showing people my writing, as I simply like doing so. I thought it’d be a good conversation topic, that it might make me closer to people.
Instead, I find two bonds dead and another half-gone. The first one could’ve been explained as something else, a death dragged out for months now. The second one could be mistaken as an accident, one that I managed to recover from.
The third was the final nail in this coffin, one that left little for doubt. It’s why I said that asymmetry can exist up to an extent, as that’s the only lesson that I can take from these case studies.
It’s natural for my writing to be intertwined with my personal life, it’s the foundation of my writing. But, I can’t let this continue– and so I find that it’s for the best to tighten it. For my writing to remain internalized, for it to orbit with some distance.
I wrote about my laughter in the past somewhere, but I don’t want to reference that essay– it’s too old. I like laughing to the point that I sometimes cry from laughing. It’s a constant regardless of what I feel, a person can laugh in pain, in sorrow, in anger, in happiness– it’s not limited to simple joy.
It’s easy to laugh for the sake of it, as thinking it feels funny to me. It’s also a good way to defuse yourself since it introduces the element of humor as well.
You don’t have to be sincere about it, as it’s something that can be faked easily. My humor is distorted in a weird way, so you might find me laughing at my own thoughts from time to time. Making people laugh is something that I like, even if it’s the result of my stupidity. Of course, even that has its limits before it’s no longer fun.
I can fake a laugh, but I don’t know how to fake a smile– something that’s a bit annoying since I have to learn that now. It’s a bit off-putting for me to naturally have a smile on my face, since that fakeness is too easy to recognize.
I’m used to having a straight line for a resting face, and I can’t look into a mirror every time I want to curve it. I’ll see how this works out in the future, as I’ve already written enough for this piece.
Before I go, I have to add on to an oath of mine. I made an oath of anonymity about the people that I reference in my writings in ‘About me’. By extension, I meant to say that I wouldn’t weaponize my writing against others in this capacity as author.
It seems that I left it unsaid, so let me commit these unwritten words into the record. With this, I can stop in peace.
Author’s note:
‘Identity’ is the third part of ‘Thoughts#2’. I’m afraid that I’m suffering from success, as I don’t think it’ll be finished thanks to the amount of ideas I have. Assume that I’m done when I actually publish a piece called ‘Thoughts#2’, since that’s supposed to be the anchor piece.
While other pieces and ideas might be better suited for this title, ‘Identity’ is the best title for this piece. I’ve already given their respective titles and considering the depth I went into, it works out. At this point, I’m not really worried about people reading my pieces anymore– so I think I can write a bit more freely?
Then again, I don’t know anything– so it’s best that I remember that. Speaking of which, I think I’m writing faster now. It’s either the result of practice or me being more motivated, since I’ve shortened my uploading interval from five days to 3-4 days.
I spent a decent amount of time rewriting certain parts, especially the one pointed towards the readers. It’s a bit hard to dull the edge of my words, and I do need them to be a bit sharp.
Regardless, a win is a win. I don’t have much to say in this note, so as always– congratulations on reaching the end of this piece.
Normally, I’d say that this wasn’t written with any particular person in mind. But I think both you and I know that it’d be a stretch for me to say that. You’re a part of my thoughts, and it’s not for me to tell you how much.
Regardless of my emotions, the writing side is isolated– so there’s no need to worry about it staining the shard you interact with. Professional courtesies must be obliged, one that’ll become more relevant in the future.
I do appreciate the people reading my essays, and I’m a bit suspicious of a few people reading my works. But I can’t tell if their words were a coincidence or something more, so let that thought die for now.
As always, congratulations for reaching the end of this piece.
References: 32-Doubt