Random Contemplations

What does it mean to be one? One, means to be undivided, to not have something before and after you, to be united in its completeness. It's one and therefore complete, because it cannot be divided into smaller. Something that is one can only be perceived from different angles, but that does not imply that those angles have separate and therefore divided ways of existence. 
What is suffering? Is suffering not getting what you want? Is it constantly having an absence of pleasure or the lack of misery. Something in that direction, yes. 
Can you use extreme suffering to cease your division. Is suffering the way to become one with whatever it is in this world in a metaphysical sense, that seems to be the underlying principles as to why things exist? 
Maybe yes. At least, from my attempt to understand the way of becoming free through a form of self-destructing manner. 
It appears that there is in the first place a form of indifference from the universe towards us. The world independent from us bases itself on the principles of either efficiency (evolutionary theory of reproduction) or indifference (lack of absolute morality/meaning etc.)
Standing in an open field, screaming at the sky for causing the difficulties you face in life, is an absurd scenario, yet interesting to investigate further. 
What is it that moves us to become angry at the world in the first place? A self-proclaimed sense of justice, that has not been met by the world? Famine, war and lack of equality, where there should be? And then anger towards the world and the universe for the injustice it lets happening?
I find that thought quite fascinating and amusing. It seems to be the root of morality, the seed of faith. To see injustice, where there should be none. To see the gateways open towards hypocrisy, misery and greed, when there should be none of that. There is a call for something. Something eternally true and one. 
It has to be there, yet if it’s not, maybe it’s us who’s not obeying its principles. Maybe there is something good out there, a higher form of justice, that we’re not noble enough to participate in. 
What seems to be the logical implication? That we are rotten creatures, who are soiling our paths towards nirvana? 
‘’Let us become free from these earthly chains by suffering. By becoming comfortably numb in our suffering, to be completely free from suffering. Only then, will we have transcended our earthly desires. Only then will we too be undivided and one.’’
I cannot recall which thinker it was, but I have to think of a saying he once quoted, that seems to reflect the human condition in these types of thoughts. 
‘’We naturally move away from chaos, towards that which is rational and in balance. Therefore, we have instinctive love for that which is rational and in balance.’’ Not meaning that humans have the same definition of rationality and balance, but that everyone shares the common instinct of wanting to be organized in a certain. To have himself and his life composed according to the symphony he wants to play to the world. 
I wonder what the drive is of wanting to be at peace with yourself and the universe. It at least carries the assumption that there is a possibility to connect mutually to the universe, meaning it has some form of existence or intellect that is adequate to that of a human. But besides that, even if the universe doesn’t respond or is indifferent to our existence, does that mean it’s impossible to connect to it?
I’ve experienced people who have failed to connect. It results in nihilism. A type of escapism. It’s screaming at the universe the first time to connect to it and when it fails, a second time to show your anger. If the universe is indifferent, then those who live their lives locked away at home in anger against the universe, are hilarious. What was there to expect? Do they not see that it doesn’t matter whether you get angry at it or not, it will continue ignoring you?
The second alternative is those who try to connect and think they’ve managed to do so. Are they running away from life? Do they dedicate themselves to a silent force, with the illusion of a connection being there? Is not like watching your own reflection in the see and then falling in love with who’s looking back? Adding something to the universe that’s not there, while it remains cold and indifferent? That too seems to be a type of escapism. 
And then there’s accepting that perhaps talking to the sky will give you cold silence back. Does that cease are drive towards wanting to be want? Liberating ourselves and being at an undivided peace?
Perhaps there’s an alternative that can be found. An alternative in which you reverse the roles. In which nor complete atheism, nor complete deism are the correct answer. In which you stop having a dialogue from your perspective and instead let the universe become a talking mirror. Staring into it, letting it give you the impressions it does, showing its perfect indifference when you are staring into the sunset, looking at the rotations the world makes, and experiencing how indifferent it is to your bad mood. Looking at the flowers and animals who seem to be endlessly reproducing, independently from what you think of it. 
Instead perhaps, that might cause a spark in which we should stop talking to the universe or about the universe and instead accept its stoic behavior. Its indifference is an open playing field in which we can create. Nothing has to be, many things can be. And then ask ourselves from the standpoint of the universe, what is it then that we are actually doing? And what does it mean to us? Instead of, what does it mean to the universe and therefore, ourselves? It keeps existing, it keeps carrying on and rotating. In its perfect nature, it keeps being. It's one, undivided in its existence and its indifference.
In the silence of mere impressions, perhaps eternity can be found.

Sunday Brunch

In the midst of chaos and laughter
There is a void in my heart 
No, let me rephrase that
My heart feels too small
Too carry all these impressions 
That's it

In the corner of this café
After a lonely Sunday 
My heart aches for some company 
No, let me rephrase that 
My heart feels too small
It needs to be filled with the presence of my beloved
That's it

Sitting by myself
Sipping overpriced coffee 
The world seems to be looking at me, waiting for me to perform
No, let me rephrase that 
My heart feels too small
To know that I don't matter to these people 
That's it

In this little corner of the world
I am sitting, sipping, waiting, dating, contemplating 
Protecting my small heart in the midst of chaos and laughter

The Arrogant Loner Philosopher

If there is something that causes me unease, yet comfort at the same time it is the continuously reoccurring drive towards solitude. This feeling isn't new to me.  I became aware of this phenomenon years ago, but the fact that I paradoxically feel at ease in this loneliness is new to me. And that feeling exactly is what I want to examine more closely.
A few days ago I came home late as usual. My head felt heavy. It was pleasant, I spend the night with a loved one. Still in ecstasy I sat down in the bus after I had said goodbye. When I'm tired I usually lose the ability to clearly formulate thoughts, so thoughts just plump upon me in a stream of consciousness. I was shocked at the first thought that occurred to me the moment I had left:
´´Finally. Solitude.´´
The empty feeling afterwards felt quite warm and inviting. Its embrace felt much needed also.
It got me thinking, philosophizing, I mean. There is a void, that I see as a place of comfort. A void people normally tend to avoid. Why is this void suddenly so attractive, when it ought to be avoided?
Depressed people often say that the void sucks them of energy, that they can;t take the emptiness of the néant. I, however, experienced it differently. That doesn't mean I don't share their sentiments or at least don't understand them.
Yet, what I want to present is another side to this feeling that people tend to refer to as 'loneliness', 'emptiness' or 'nothingness'. The ambiguous side of loneliness. The feeling that this state of melancholy is a warm blanket that protects me against any impression the world tries to make on me. Escapism in nihilism. Comfort in nihilism.
In this feeling of warmth and comfort I sense that I am careless and lazy. Solitude can be best described as an empty cabin in a far away country that feels inviting after having seen, heard and felt too much. You retreat from the chaos into silence.
Certainly, the silence surrounding you can drive you insane, but it can also serve as a means to process thoughts that have been impressed in your soul.
This being the first factor that drives me to solitude. My soul is impressed by too much.
Another factor that drives me back to solitude and with that back to writing (since I haven't written in months) is me feeling restricted. All these impressions I feel, new ones and old ones, are a lot to process. They pile up and need time and energy to be thoroughly examined.
This in itself is mind numbing, but it becomes even harder when you have no clear morality to measure these impression up against, so you can't judge the position they take inside your life. You're stuck and don't know what to do with them. Yet, time passes. Days go by. The world waits for no one.
So whether I make my choice or not, there is no eternal tomorrow waiting for me to take my time.
So in the stress of time there seem two options available. Either you make up your mind and just choose already. You can either do this by investing time into the choice you're going to make and hope you will be able to triumphantly rise in the end. Or you can just choose and see whatever comes out, while being indifferent to the results and thinking that choices are a form of game you play in life to pass time.
Another option is to look at the other side of the coin and again accept that the world will not wait for you and do nothing about it.
In other words, to solitude yourself, because in the end nothing of the choices you make will matter in the long term, because in the end nothing shall last.
Or as Persian existential poet Omar Khayyam gracefully said:

''There was a water drop, it joined the sea. A speck of dust, it was fused with earth; what of your entering and leaving this world? A fly appeared and disappeared.''

I can understand that option two and three can be condemned if you are a humanist or have a positive attitude towards life. There's nothing virtuous in neglecting the will to live and life itself. Yes, simply seeing life as a game is also a way of neglect. After all, it's you being your own enemy and destroying yourself in the process, one can reason. Not a rebellion against the world, since the world doesn't care. It's you rebelling against that part that you detest in the world. That's how Camus would reason.
Yet, then I think of Kierkegaard. It doesn't matter what we choose, because in the end we will regret it anyway.
Live, don't live, you'll regret it anyway. Love, don't love, you'll regret it anyway. Study, don't study, you'll regret it anyway. Job, no job. Regret. Friendship, solitude. Regret. Fuck him, don't fuck him. Regret.
Yes, Kierkegaard meant this in another way than I am presenting right now. To him knowing we're mortal, meant living to the fullest. 
Morior, ergo sum. (I die, therefore I am.)
This is the only life you will get, this is the only chance for you to make mistakes. Love them. Since you won't be able to ever be mistaken again in the same exact way, in the same exact situation, with the exact same you.
Beautiful. What a beautiful way to turn something so fragile as life, something so uncertain as the freedom to choose into a manifestation of the self. As a way to take life with your bare hands and embrace it for the potential shithole it was, is and might become.
The problem however is, I am not Camus' Sysiphus. I am not Nietzsche's Übermensch.
I. Am. Sara.
Following whatever a philosopher said, simply for the sake of him saying it, doesn't fill my soul. I need more reason.
With this being said, I want to say that I do not wish to be an imitation of a philosopher. I wish to be a philosopher. How do I see it? Of course, inspired by other philosopher, but what is it I want? Nietzsche's position in what it means to be a philosopher is quite right in this sense. He said this.

Quote: ''The actual interest of the scholar, therefore, are generally in another direction - in the family, perhaps, in money-making, or in politics; it is, in fact, almost indifferent at what point of research his little machine is placed, and whether the hopeful young worker becomes a good philologist, a mushroom specialist, or a chemist; he is not characterized by becoming this or that. In the philosopher, on the contrary, there is absolutely nothing impersonal; and above all, hid morality furnishes a decided and a decisive testimony as to who he is, - that is to say, in what order the deepest impulses of his nature stand to each other.''
-Beyond Good and Evil, page 5

Being a philosopher means to be egocentric. It's also the only job that fully reflects the soul of the individual. In that sense, to philosophy is to exist. 
Philosopha sum ergo cogito. I am a philosopher, therefore I think.

To come back to the main topic: the drive towards solitude. The third factor being pride.
Pride is a difficult state of mind, character trait, whatever you want to call it. Pride can be good. It protects you from mental harm. It can cause you transcend yourself, because you are confident enough that there is more in store for you.
Even the act of me writing this is a form of pride, I have something to say that's worth listening to. I can even say I am proud of my ability to formulate these thoughts.
However, would it be better to have no pride at all? Is there something negative to it that outweighs the positive? No pride can lead to nihilism. You have nothing worth maintaining nor anything to lose.
It also seems to me that having pride and arrogance is something that belongs to a philosopher. Do humble philosophers exist or is that a contradictio in terminis? If they exist, perhaps it's a philosopher ignorant of his or her own arrogance.
I, as a matter of fact, know that it is necessary for a philosopher to be certain over a few things. To such an extend that he or she wants to present it to the world as some new discovery the world didn't see, but the philosopher in question did. He or she knows better.
Doesn't that imply arrogance? Am I arrogant writing this? At least to the point that I feel that these words are worth writing down and remembering?
This, however, isn't the only way pride presents itself to me. It also coincides with restriction of the self.
Those two fall under the same main drive that bring me back to wanting solitude: Freedom.
It's amusing how such an empty word still has the power to drive us towards it. What I mean by that is that freedom as an abstract term doesn't carry any meaning outside our frame of reality. I can't point at it; even worse, every individual has an own interpretation of freedom.
Is my red your red? And is my freedom your freedom? The second question can immediately follow the first.
Solitude is also a form of freedom. Not freedom to of course, but freedom from. From humiliation, from labor, responsibilities, embarrassment, pain, studies, loss.
Let us all be free from! So I wish I could exclaim and make life easy. Yet, aside from being an empty word, it is also an ambiguous term.
Freedom from love, pleasure, laughter, warmth, friendship, improvement, encounters, evolution, transcendence. In this battle of overcoming yourself you will see that those words that seem to be polar opposites actually have the option to causally follow each other in a beautiful flux called life.
So in conclusion, what has writing this brought me? Am I closer to anything at all? Or did I just run in a circle?
I can fairly conclude it led to something. Something small, but significant in my eyes.
I have no answers on how to live life. I merely know the questions. At least I know what the inner battle is. That's what this stream of consciousness has brought me.
Thus again I am confronted by wanting two things at once, but wanting neither over all. Thus once again there is the phenomenon I can never seem to outrun,
Ambiguity. 

Random Thought #5

There is unease surrounding us. Unease in the form of chaos. That distinction is made with reason. When we say that we feel at unease we mean that we can still function properly, yet lack the taste to dress up properly, to eat healthy, to go to work or class. Basically to do anything that adds up to our desire to present ourselves in such a way that we consider satisfactory. It is difficult to explain just giving general ideas of what I mean, so here is an allegory. A storm is going on. It takes place in a hollow room inside our chest. The storm is one of emotions. The emotions switch from one specter to the next, but they twist and twirl; causing uneasiness in the heart, because you never know what the storm will bring next. Even worse, what if it one day loses all it energy and stops spinning all together? Whatever the case, it is difficult to enter from the outside in. We can only experience the effects, but the causes remain a mystery.

This storm also has affected us to write and sit here thinking over and over how we should type these words with the correct and confident formulation that we're slowly losing. 

It is, funny enough, in exactly this inner battle that I have found a reason to finally write something down. Ambiguity is something that always fascinated me to be honest. It forms the bridge from extremes to a golden middle of grey and nuance. This transcends the black and white thinking and reminds me again why we are so brilliant. It shows that we actually are capable of deep thought to a very far away extend. One which gives the sudden realization that there is something beyond good and evil. This awkward piece of writing has a reason. As a means to turn this inner battle into a manifestation that can be turned outwards and thus also be presented to the outer world with the aim to reflect on it. 

Why is it that I am doubting myself so much?

It is difficult to type away, to fill pages and be meaningful. Aren't essays always supposed to be long? Because it seems that complexity, depth and validity have become synonyms in the philosophical atmosphere. Not that I can blame them of course, since I myself have admitted in a few pages earlier that it is more than necessary for me to convey my thoughts to the outer world and still preserve the intention and the depth that the words carry with them. Thus it is necessary to be clear. Clearness can only be understood in terms of either an Aha-Erlebnis (insight) or a pages of paper that exhibit the long syllogisms the writer went through in an internal battle with the self to finally come to that self-evident insight. 

And perhaps it is in exactly that in which I am experiencing the inner struggle. That I want both and neither. By both and neither, I mean that I appreciate either aspects, but neither in overall. 

I despise the shallowness of short philosophies. One-Liner Philosophies as I like to call them. You can often find them on social media with the picture of a punk-philosopher like Nietzsche or Sartre put by some rebel teenager to express his or her individuality. It consists out of one line that joyfully kicks against the system, such as ''God is dead'' or ''The hell is the Other''. 

I must admit, it does annoy me, even though I try to ignore it. 

Tbe One-Liner Philosophies used by many, not only now, but by anyone with a superiority complex, as a means to overshadow their insecurities, can be quite helpful though.

If used properly, it can be used to emphasis a certain thought that is the main point of your stream of consciousness. If that's not the case, it can also be used to summarize in a few words the whole point of your story. This gives the reader clarification and the writer a reference point when he or she has to defend or explain his or her thesis. 

Another form of writing is the overly long complex writing that serves no other purpose than to convey something easy as difficult as possible to create depth where there is little. 

Depth in thought is indeed very difficult to achieve. It is quite frustrating, I know from experience and sometimes even heartbreaking, when you have the feeling that words no longer have the power to carry your emotions and thoughts to the other with all the associations you have when using those words. 

This becomes even more complex when it's written text and all the emotions have to come from cold blocky letters printed against a white background. 

So what you then do to convey your words is to repeat yourself. If that doesn't help, you resort to going way too deep into the topic, to the point where you've completely digressed from the original topic. This too is quite understandable, but a pain to read. Mind numbing even. 

However, it is necessary to be nuanced. It is true that often people resort to this type of writing, because they have to convey long thoughts concerning topics that do need all the pages filled in order for the reader to understand it. That's however not what I'm talking about. Those books who do that don't outdo themselves. Those pages are necessary, because if you took pieces out of it, it would stop making sense or lose it's literary touch that differentiates the writers from other writers. The latter is of course a subjective insight that I can't go into depth to right now, because I want to keep the focus on the battle I'm experiencing. 

For the sake of practicality, let's say that when you can leave it out, it's unnecessary to write it down.

So between these two extremes, where should I place myself?

Does my problem even posit itself in this question or should I be asking myself a whole other question all together?

The words that I can associate with my restlessness are the following:

Unease, impatience and depth.

And immediately we can behold the problem. The eternal problem of contradiction that will probably follow me into the grave. Wanting two things that seem to essentially exclude each other. 

Depth and impatience that is, which consequently concludes to uneasiness. 

Painting 1: ''Lust''

''Lust''

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.