I was thinking of something this afternoon, walking my way to the RER station, borringly pulling my feet off the ground and listening lazily to some crazy rock music in my ears as I recalled the meaningless events of the day. That sucks, I thought, how come there's always something telling me how to feel? That IT thing in the back of my mind that just tells me what to do, and what to think at that said moments. Buggers. That's the most annoying thing ever, really. I can't wait to get rid of that..
And then, it struck me like a slice of ketchup on an over-fried pancake.
It wasn't as if I could get rid of IT, since IT was actually ME.
Now, let me explain. Doesn't it feel, sometimes like there is you... and there is you?
Like there are two things in your mind, the first some sort of vague conscience hovering dreamingly between reality and the virtual perfectly insane visions in your mind. That part, having a very vague notion of existing, is the one that dreams, imagines, creates, and just...is, just feels.
The other, however, as another part of yourself, that conscious, reasoning side of you; that harsh or, sometimes, soft voice that tells you how you should feel at that moment, when you wonder why then, she answers by some incredibely strange way (as if it was reasonable but you first part just can't make it out.) then tells you what to think because of that-and-that and because so-and-so is that-and-that. It is that second part which ties you back to the world, to the present, to the cold, harsh, boring reality.
You try to evade it, to run, fly away from it but you just can't because it's part of you. Now, I am absolutely not talking about your 'physical body' or any sort of twisted complex that would make you concious of your flaws, for example, "oh my, my tights are fat! Let's put a finger in my throat!"; But about something that everyone just has. You know, that voice, when you are lazily streched upon your bed, staringly dreamingly to your ceiling, imagining wild horses and pumpkins running free in it, that voice that comes to tell you "Humpty Dumpty, you have that essay to write for tomorrow, JACKASS!" Yeah, alright, that one. Or the one that tells you: "So-and-so said that-and-that because he/she doesn't like you. Grump. Huff. Sigh. Smile a fake smile. Laugh flirtingly. Smile ironically. Cry to show you care. Say this. Say that. Say that you think Balzac's texts aren't Realism. Say x is not equal to 2." Or any sort of crazy, extremely annoying things your first-you just doesn't give a holy shit about.
But then, I wondered dragging my way in the smelly and yellowish corridors of the station, we are never free, are we? And never shall we be, isn't that so? And indeed, we aren't. We will never, at least until we lose all conscience of existence at all, all substance of being, get free of that second self which directs all your says and doings. Some might be freeer than others, those so called "crazy people", who are, in fact, just the happiest beings alive.
Because freedom is never, in fact, archieved, there is always ourselves to stop it from ever happening. Those selves who will always be there, no matter what, to keep you from flying away in your wildest imagination.
Because I will never be freed from me.
it kills me, mate.
PS: I've three four three four voices in my head,
me, ron, hermass and snape and Luna
and they all just make me feel like Luna and Nargals... cool, hein? :D
the missing pages someone accidentaly ripped off *
i TOLD you he was not dead. his twin is my husband. i'd know if he was.
