Too Complicated

There's always infinity, right?

Its like im riding on an elevator. The doors are out of metal, and so are the walls. Im surrounded by them. They hardly open, I ride alone, thinking, thinking way too much. When they do open, a person walks in and stares at his feet. Im waiting for him to leave. Leave. This is my elevator, my life. Once a wise man walks in and stands opposite. He has a mug in his hands, he inspires confidence. A wise old professor. I am tempted to ask him. I am tempted to shower him with question. Maybe he knows, maybe he can solve my riddles for me. What is happiness? I whisper, but he doesn't hear because I dont move my lips. Its a whisper inside my head. But maybe it wouldn't matter. He couldn't answer, because we all have our own happiness. He cant solve my riddle for me. I need to do this myself. But the metal has grown on me, it wont let me out. Its my box, my life. The doors open and he steps out. Goodbye wise man, I wonder if you hold the answers to my riddles. I remember another wise man. He really saw me. Vicky is the kindest of them all, he wrote. I still have that paper in my wallet, its one of my most valued possessions. I try to decipher all the words but some of them still dont make sense. Can save your life, he writes by one of them. Maybe thats what I need, to save my life. But I dont understand the words, I dont know how to. It isn't clear enough.

But right now im still riding on the elevator. I dont feel, because the feelings are out there, through the metal doors. And I just go up and down. I dont know whats out there, but I dont really care either. I know how to be alone, inside my elevator. I feel okay. It feels right. It feels like the only option. It makes me feel in control. My elevator, my life. If someone stays on for way too long I breathe harder. Stronger. I fight my claustrophobia and wait for the doors to open and for the stranger to leave. The phobia comes not from the space, but from the person. I try to remember when was the last time I felt something, for anyone. And I realize that I never have. My heart is metal, it blended with the walls. I never loved, and I dont think I ever will. The roots are my biggest riddle, but without them I cannot unfreeze my body, I cannot leave the elevator. Not that I want to, I cannot wish for that, because I cannot feel it. The sadness over something important. I simply wish for everything to make sense. Thats why I immerse myself in words, they make so much sense. They know how to work with metal. They glitter like colored stones, they leap like silver fish, they are foam, thread, metal, dew... They make so much sense. And I make none. I'm frozen, i'm a part of the elevator now. I've blended in with the walls, leaving would be a crime, I belong here. This elevator, this metal, its my essence. It would be a crime to leave. And you told me you hate them, criminals.

Is the world anything bigger than a perception? Everything we feel, everything we think about, everything we care about, its all perceptions. None of it is a universal truth. We perceive a painting to be beautiful, a novel to be meaningful, a person to be kind. We perceive. Its subjectivity, not a fact. Whatever our senses tell us, is what we believe. What is perception? Its triggered from our senses. Touching, tasting, smelling, hearing and seeing. And thinking. Perceptions. Does whatever we feel become a truth to us? If you perceive a painting to be a masterpiece, that is your truth, your universal belief. Is that enough?


What is truth? Its something thats been proved. But with the world being subjective, how can anything be proved? What is art, for instance? Its subjectivity. You cannot define it regardless of how long you chose to sit in a room and talk about it. There is no conclusion. Its subjectivity. Subjectivity is the truth as said Kierkegaard. And it is. Is anything in this world objective?

Is there a universal matter that cannot be questioned and is not a perception? Numbers. What are numbers? They're abstract objects, representations of concepts of quanity. Ever-lasting, a discovery yet not an invention. Are they a truth? They're not subjective, you cannot perceive a number differently from anybody else. That makes it a fact. It proves that there is such a thing as truth in the world. A number is a truth. Colors. What is red? Red is one of the countless shades of the world. We've narrowed them down, as everything, we believe that simplicity is the answer. But we cannot perceive all the colors of the world, us pathetic human creatures, and that makes them a perception to us, a subjection. But really? Are they? They're a fact. They exist, and always have. And they're limitless, despite us not being able to discover every single one of them. Theres another truth. A truth we have turned them into our little puppet, torn it from its true original form into a make-believe.


Does truth exist without a question mark? Is there a rule? An answer to no question? Thats bothered me my entire life. The unwritten question. I had it on my mind every single day. And now Im falling asleep. I've reached the point where Im degrading and that makes me scared. I no longer see a point to questioning, questions, how pointless, who is a God? Does he exist? I want to stand up and scream, who cares?! You guys, sitting in this room, pretending to know something you cannot possibly know, discussing something so irrational? No, of course there isnt if you follow your logic. He cannot be proved by any means, that is the point of God. Proof is the enemy of faith, havent you heard? What are you trying to state? Those who believe will always believe, and those who dont... frankly, I dont see why you're wasting you're time. And wasting mine.

What is truth? A number, a color. No, their forms. Their concepts. We've narrowed them down, given them a limit. Our favorite part, to limit everything, to give everything its barrier. That way we feel closer, wiser, powerful. That they're the same, the have their limits, just like us. Limits. We, humans, exist in the concept of time. You know what that means? It means you'll never be free. Do whatever you like, scream, rebel, cry, but you're a slave. You cannot escape. Its a turning machine and you're a part of it. This time. You cant go back or forth, you're on the machine, you are the machine. And thats too bad because you're time is almost out. And you know what else? It wont matter you're gone. Dozens of others just like you will take your place. And time will go on, this cruel caroussel, you're on it, you are it.

Im scared, I need to write, only then I feel my mind moving. It will stop otherwise, and that will be it. I will fall asleep, I'll be that person I always feared. The one who doesnt care, you cannot, yes, simply cannot, question. My mind has been resting for too long. I read these passages and they make no sense. Numbers, forms, concepts. They're facts, isnt that enough?

Degradation, I once wrote about it. How once you reach a point, your peak, and then you go down. And you cannot stop the process. Im at that peak, i've reached it and now Im falling. And it needs to be stopped. Like a philosopher who is considered someone who reached outside a magicians hat, and can see the world, but cannot call to anyone down there, they're too asleep and comfortable in the warmth of the darkness.

Wake up. Wake up.

Wake up. Wake up.


Wake up. Wake up.


Wake up. Wake up.


Wake up. Wake up.


Wake up. Wake up.


Wake up. Wake up.


Wake up. Wake up.


Wake up. Wake up.


Wake up. Wake up.