On waiting

Some person picked up a pencil and done an astonishing drawings, some creates stanza out of thin air, while some used it to pierce another person's heart, literally. The differences are clear, that pencil, as much as other tool, is a transitional device for each thought. 

I am certain that I've wronged book's function most of the time. 

I've been a librarian for few months. Sometimes its puzzling, challenging, another time I'm bored to death and ended up pumping dopamine from youtube channels. In this moment, if "I" was a protagonist of a novel, this would be an end of status quo, thus revoking the circle of new quest. 

Of course, life isn't relied on any textbook.  

As I learned here, -if i really learned something, that I got tired of my old habit. 4 months ago, whenever faced by personal decision, ranged from finalizing a design, to even completing a simple paragraph, I would hesitate until someone showed me the process. My year of isolation has brought me bitter conviction about the world, that nothing particular should worthy of my interest.

Life's only a waiting of ensured death. Best to sit tight and having small talk before it comes. I felt satisfied with big picture, that my existence is a mere coincidence. Nothing worth being pursued. I started to believe that Godot is conception of death, unlike popular opinion of God or faithful entity. The second they met Godot, they would have ceased to be existed. 

It took me for a while that one thing gotten solid isn't that belief, its the cognitive habit. My habitual recess for example, is a residue of my routine "enjoying" state of waiting. Its printed on my pattern that waiting have its own intrinsic value. It's obscene, it has quality of freedom. Its excitement lies between the second of decision from being made. The only obvious idea is, that you have deliberate choice to valid or void your present doing. 

I believe at the time I'd like to push my luck and pissed off people as form of cynical belief. Plus the delusion, oh boy, no one is smarter than the one who knows he had power to choose. 

Like I said, I'm fed up. Apparently, afternoon existential crisis with subtle arrogance on the side are not healthy. 

I always scratching my head in confusion when I see this flip of perspective. It doesn't hard nor hurt to see outside the simulacra, but it much more easier to cave in like yesterday. Shadow on the cave are easier to perceive than the real tree, yet I have to beware to not flying too close to the sun, or I'll drown like a son of cunning craftsman.

As I moved forwards, I learned one of two (practical) things. 

Guilt is useless. Sin is only exist within guilt, ask Hamlet. The worst form sin is to be unfair to oneself, including self harm, be it mentally or physically. By stoicism, it is sin to be dysfunctional human being in relation to natural reason. Second, kindly stop trying to control everything. In more pragmatic words, stop caring at the moment if it would drain your mental stamina. There are so much to decide in a day, and few cigar in a day started to feel unworthy. 

By negating guilt, one's started to develop grit. Which is good, it made me started to like myself. People seems to looked better, without usual plastic humanism. Each person I know are on their own journey, and I bid good luck for them. I can now sincerely appreciates their struggle, for I have now reflecting on my own.

So about tools, I have been used book to justified my belief and overlooked some of its real value. The book has been my sidekick on waiting, my excuse, and poetic symbol of empty gaze after horizon. I have no more to extract from waiting, except that I was damaged from it and I have less knowledge than I thought I had. Yes, it's an example of useless guilt to bear right now. 

Tomorrow isn't any brighter than yesterday, except that there always something surprising in a day if I stick long enough in that small library. A serendipity between those shelves. 

At this moment I usually promised myself this or that. Such renewal vow after a relished confession, was ordinary pattern. I prefer stealing last line of American Psycho script.

My pain is constant and sharp and I do not hope for a better world for anyone, in fact I want my pain to be inflicted on others. I want no one to escape, but even after admitting this there is no catharsis, my punishment continues to elude me and I gain no deeper knowledge of myself, no new knowledge can be extracted from my telling. This confession has meant nothing.

Yes, its a poor cockblocking choice of statement, and using a fragment out of its context are not clever. But nothing comes to my mind right now. I just felt that writing on this blog is one way to be less-unfair to myself.