Contemplation During a Lonely Night

''Il y a des jours où Dieu est si loin, qu'il semble absent''
There are days where God is so far that he seems absent
-Simone de Beauvoir

Unfortunately for me He never felt present. Fortunately maybe, however that's hard to tell on days where you feel like a raindrop falling from far only to be hit by the solid cold ground.
Never have I felt more alone, than realising that growing up doesn't mean solely growing up as a child, but mentally as an adult.
God would be the father figure making sure that all goes well, that I am safe.
For now I feel like I'm an orphan of life. Nothing seems to satisfy me in the slightest. Even worse, I feel empty and joyless. Sucked and drained, but most of all I am afraid.
I barely have enough energy to enjoy anything, but just enough to spend my nights contemplating and worrying. Wasteful nights if you ask me.
Some people weren't made for human interaction, I think I'm part of them,
I never am more confronted with my loneliness and angst than in the middle of the joyful crowd.
I know that escaping and isolation are meaningless, but what else is there in life?
I believe that's indeed what we see as growing up and facing the challenges of a possibly meaningless and empty life, yet giving our all to it.
Amusing if you ask me, for I can't judge whether that's genius madness or mental madness.
Even now as I am writing I can finally sense a form of peace overwhelming me; I am safe.
It has the same cosy feeling I had when mother would hug me tightly before going to sleep, the same warmth, the same isolation inside my own little world.
Growing up is leaving the safe spot from mother's nest and moving on to sharing the bed with a dozen strangers at the off chance that one might be the one for you.
Is it bad? No of course not, for who is there to judge you and your choices?
To say what is right from wrong, to comfort you when you spend your nights crying and seeking for some kind of answer to your ignorance of life.
I sense a balance between not caring at all, very nihilistic of course and on the other side a lot of fear for the unknown. Fear for mistakes I might never forgive myself.
Indeed, there is no God to judge me, but that makes it worse because I know myself.
There where He would give me comfort and salvation, I would never forgive myself. Not because I am perfect, but because I would not be able to look myself in the eyes and see nothing but filth.
And suddenly I would lose my touch for existence, because I apparently never knew what it meant to be alive as I indeed made those mistakes.
They haven't happened yet, but this would indeed be how I would reason with myself.

Oh desperate times, lovely lonely times.
Please world, leave me at rest and I will never provoke you again. I too bear fault at being curious, but not being able to forsee and accept the consequences of my childish curiosity.
Eventhough I am very doubtful in terms of morality, I can't forgive myself for seeing the world and its people as my toys any longer.
I used to be nihilistic and an opportunist, only using the world to satisfy my own needs, but even that doesn't work as much as it should.
Therefor my subconsciousness only desires punishment of the Self.
Egocentric behaviour should be considered as a lonely act, therefor damned to a lonely existence.
And honestly, loneliness has never sounded more liberating.

Losse Gedachtes #5: Vingers

Op deze vijf vingers
Draag ik de planeten
Met een lichte tik omlaag
Stort alles naar beneden

Desperation

Short Story

I have never experienced the horrors of prison, but had I; it wouldn't be any different from my current life. I hate my life, all of it, the slow pace, the ignorance that is floating around, overwhelming me, no, slowly eating me away, like a parasite. Every inch of me falling into oblivion and gradually being consumed by this tiny parasite that has manifested itself into the core of my soul, leaving nothing behind but emptiness.
Yes, life is hell, a never ending hell that has solely one torture in mind for me; as if it was specially selected for me. Iteration, endless, mindless, ignorant, oblivious iteration; forcing myself to wake up, forcing myself to sleep, doing my tasks in a continual cycle of life. Making myself get adjust to this mindset in life, although I can't discriminate myself from who I was and who I am now.
Yesterday was today and today will be tomorrow; always the same morning always the same evening, always the same dreadful night.
During the early morning, I stand once again in the kitchen and prepare food for a lazy bastard who can still not pronounce my name correctly. I cringe every time I hear him say my name in that deep grunting voice, that always seems to be short of breath, with a slight slur to finish it off. "Sedaf...my tea." I hear him moan from the other room. I close my eyes for a second. His groans and puffing make me lose my appetite. Sedaf, Sedaf, Sedaf. Indeed my slave name is Sedaf. My real name is Sadaf.
With a cup of tea filled with enough sugar to provide a whole chocolate factory, 2 eggs, bread, milk and cheese I am sit next to him. He attacks his food like a foul pig, stuffing all the ingredients in his mouth at once, turning and twisting it with excessive saliva and washing it all away with his tea. I smile tenderly at him and stroke my hair to one side. "Sweetheart, should I bring you something else? A piece of extra bread.. coffee? Perhaps a little bit more, to stuff your tummy t?" You piece of garbage.
He looks at me with empty eyes and mindlessly shakes his head. Then he takes a look at me from top to bottom. I might as well be naked by the way he looks "You ain't eating?" and I shake my head. "I..." Before I can say more, the television is turned on with the sound blasting loudly an indication for me to be quiet and leave.

Good.

I go off to the kitchen. I have accepted it. No, there is indeed no escaping from this prison. Denial is pointless. I will live here, die here and rot here. For me this home is my state and that man, whom I call ‘husband’, is my master, father, mother and brother, all at once and much more. I adore him. Yes, I love him. I love him.
Whenever I feel I have the privilege to contemplate my existence, I remind myself there is no place in my life for happiness or sadness.
Only survival.
At those rare moments I do contemplate I tell myself:
"My dear sweetheart, does it even matter whether it is you touching yourself in the shower, with the thoughts of a stranger in your head, or the forceful penetration of your husband?"
Those times, I tell myself, when the light of my cigarette is the only thing illuminating the room:
"My dear, my love, it is all the same."
And yes, that is indeed the only explanation I can give myself.
Whether it's the pain of the mind caused by a love one without her intention or the pain of the devil, who awaits to punish me some more every night,
I can see nothing, but the darkness of inner core my mind, bouncing back to me from the others due to my impure thoughts and acts.
And for some reason, even the enjoyment of this cigarette disappears and it becomes as foul and bitter as my mind.
"The better", I sigh and I inhale deeply, as tears drip from my cheeks.

Lucky for me the sound of the TV is loud enough for him to not hear me hit my head against the wall.