What a haze everything has become
The nausea of being follows me everywhere
The old remedies no longer work
My self is nothing but the sum of strivings
Negating some, I feel as dull as tar water
But it is hard to get the cogs to turn again
Without answering why I want them to turn
When I am exiled back home, my telos dies
The mastery disappears
The birdsong drowns it
And every time
Yes every time
The unspeakable religion rears its head
But this time, it rears to a different ego
One embedded in another person
But it laughs at the turmoils of such
It renders me unable to see it seriously
Which makes it impossible to sustain
I am tired of the same deliberations
So deeply tired.
I thought that confronting the unconscious would aid me.
But intellectual confrontation is nothing.
How can I love myself when I cannot find myself?
Only noise and the nausea of being.
I pray for the cogs to turn again soon.
Aug 9, 2025
Aug 9, 2025 at 7:46 PM UTC
What a haze everything has become
The nausea of being follows me everywhere
The old remedies no longer work
My self is nothing but the sum of strivings
Negating some, I feel as dull as tar water
But it is hard to get the cogs to turn again
Without answering why I want them to turn
When I am exiled back home, my telos dies
The mastery disappears
The birdsong drowns it
And every time
Yes every time
The unspeakable religion rears its head
But this time, it rears to a different ego
One embedded in another person
But it laughs at the turmoils of such
It renders me unable to see it seriously
Which makes it impossible to sustain
I am tired of the same deliberations
So deeply tired.
I thought that confronting the unconscious would aid me.
But intellectual confrontation is nothing.
How can I love myself when I cannot find myself?
Only noise and the nausea of being.
I pray for the cogs to turn again soon.