Mental diaries — 2
Das Monstrum in meinem Selbst ist so Gross ge Worden! (Johan — MONSTER)
Gone are the days when I used to charm myself with my own spectacle. It’s hectic, overly electric. So you want me to be active? You want to deprive me of my ennui with your philosophies while comfortably sitting in front of your desk, writing stuff I’ve heard a million times already?
Don’t come at me! I don’t deny your tragedies and the consequent philosophies. I’m just asking a question: Are you, in any way, from any angle, from your tarnished lens, from your hasty glance, lustful romance, bashful stance, insinuating that I genuinely, holistically… am damned?
Well, you must! For you seem to think you’ve found all cure to my disease. Your stances are serious, no doubt. Maybe you’re standing at the right place… let’s not even doubt that, you are standing at the right place. But you seem to be slacking off at the timing, darling. I have no doubt about that.
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You’re dreaming… by asking of me something that isn’t me. If self-reflection was my thing, I’d have done it a million years ago. Do you think telling somebody to act in a certain way is good? Are you not just (use your dreamy faculties here) giving me your soul?
Maybe you think I’m polarizing these arguments. If so, I think you don’t understand, ladies and gentlemen; I’m not trying to prove anything. I don’t care if you pick sides here, it’s just my inner monologue, and I refer to you for the sake of convenience.
Maybe this imaginary guy I’m addressing doesn’t care a flick about what I say. Well, neither do I! One should care not for the person caring, but should care about their own caring. That’s the ultimate goal. Why is one caring at all? If one has no reason, one should sit in a quiet corner, and reflect. But since I’m unable to, I’m writing.
Maybe he wills my betterment… maybe he’s genuinely dragging me out of trouble. But the thing is… I’m too content to care. Call it ennui, but dear, you’re a fool if you think you can deprive me of it. I amuse myself with it. I’ll amuse myself to death with it.
Let me tell you: if you’re coming at me, you better bring me something new to hear, to absorb, to retain every once in a while. Give me something I’m able to withhold for the longest time from the vile eye, so that I’m then able to blind it with its thunder! But thunder loses its charm for me, too. I’m not a child too scared of thunder, clinging to my mother every time it strikes. I’m a man used to thunder, but not of being struck by it. Strike me with it once I’ve amused myself with its spectacle. Let me enjoy the swift death, as I hope it is, and the joy of turning to crisp! Find me something fresher, better once I’m tired of that, too!
