How About the Propaganda Called "Love"?
There was a time when my sentences ended with full-stops and when my conclusions weren't doubted. I remember the religious compositions I used to write about faith (al eeman) and truth. I had shaped myself a belief that would march through the seasons. I had set myself a remarkable document to abide by... I'm now looking at its left-overs.
Now that I'm looking back, it feels like each year had been imprinted before-hand to end up the way it did. At a certain age, I met exactly the right people to walk off with pieces of my innocent naivety. Then came the ones who'd speak to me of certainty and spiritual convictions. Later on has the property of my face almost witnessed the bewildered souls who'd confidently raise philosophical issues over some weed and pot with sentences such as: "Life is a bitch, then you die". I always knew that to get through life, you usually need something more powerful and satisfying than that. But then there was me.
When I look at myself now, I see a hypocrite. Sometimes I fight for matters that I don't even believe in. Sometimes these arguments become so tedious that I watch myself nodding and gradually consuming new beliefs that I don't even appreciate. But that's not the point.
The point is that I hardly ever have one. I take in too many eye-contacts and numerological analyses only to toss them aside with expected apathy. And that's what troubles me; my cyclical apathy.
And My resistance to normality. Maybe because I observe so much. Probably because I'm judgmental. Right now I'm judging from an ambivalent book that constantly changes; so much that each rule in it had been both lawful and unlawful. But the book doesn't bring itself to a close. I'm currently one of these people being observed; by my same book, by my same packed-down rules.
Well then, how about the propaganda called "love"? It's a brainwashed and brainwashing system - that's for sure. But there's something more significant about it, isn't there? I bet that's the main reason why everyone is so drawn to it - because for a moment it makes you feel like your existence is being shared and understood, perfectly as it is, with no flaws or misperfections - "He/She is certainty." I once read the words that I can't seem to forget: "This kind of certainty, comes but once in a lifetime."
I'm not talking "temporary" here. I'm sure there are slight moments where I wouldn't have minded living in. But the question is: "Inside of my twisted mind and heart, which guardian would I seek out if I were to ever contemplate suicide?" Suddenly the much sought-after aims and aspirations don't seem to sneak into my imaginative vision anymore, but instead I see the sky-scraping face of love looking after me. It randomly hands me both: the "nadir of misery" and the "apex of joy" - but the excitement it causes is what gets to me each time. Plus the hope that it could linger. Until I ignore everything else.
You see, I'm carrying another book now; a thick one titled "certainty" - yet its pages are blank empty.
And now I come to ask: Who started brainwashing? It must have been him. He was smiling confidentally; knowing that he was ruining the chance that my heart would ever beat that same tune again. But that sounds cynical. And brainless.
Back in the days when I had my sacred document, I was aware that temptations were weaknesses. Honest as it is, I feel weak now. Stupid as it sounds, I sort of desire to grieve just a bit more.
I look back at the person I used to be at times, and try to take advice from her - because perhaps she knew better.
April 19, 2000