146/365

The lecture was on sociology and the lecturer asked me what was it I desired.

I stared at him for a good long minute, knowing exactly what i wanted but also knowing that it wasnt the answer he was hoping to get. Right now, all i want is the world to end and for everyone to go into eternal sleep so that nothing horrible exists anymore. No stress, no stereotypes, no hate, no prejudice, no troubles, no feels. We are polluting ourselves and it is terrible.
But im not going to expose my morbid darkness in a lecture theatre filled with fuckboys and innocent minds. And so i answer a true answer, the answer that i go to when i’ve given up on some aspect of life – a relatively expected answer that gains a smirk from this weird teacher.

I desire ice cream. 

144/365

I really like the Schrodinger’s cat theory. The version where you place a cat and a cyanide pill into an opaque box that could lead to two possible scenarios. The cat eats the cyanide pill and dies, or it doesnt and it lives. But the conclusion is only met when we open the box. In which case, we seal the ultimate fate of the cat. So we dont open the box. The cat stays in this middle ground of being both dead and alive.

It is really a fascinating paradox that is so applicable. Our choices – whether to open the box or not – lead to consequences or ambiguity respectively. Maybe to preserve something we really value, to not face the likelihood of the less preferred outcome, we push them to the state of being both at once? I know this theory is supposedly much more technical and scientific in exploring the possibility of alternate dimensions through quantum physics – but I like it like this. A poetic spin.

141/365

By now, all’s wrong. In everyone there sleeps
A sense of life lived according to love.
To some it means the difference they could make
By loving others, but across most it sweeps
As all they might have done had they been loved.
That nothing cures. An immense slackening ache,
As when, thawing, the rigid landscape weeps,
Spreads slowly through with them – that, and the voice above
Saying Dear Child, and all time has disproved.

Philip Larkin, Faith Healing (extracted)

132/365

Maybe we are only alive because we exist in someone’s memory. Our existence is only dependent in the minds of other people. Being remembered and seen and heard gives us the basis for meaning. In a hundred years when we’re dead and everyone that knew us dies – that will be true death.

So Shakespeare isnt dead. He knew he wouldnt die and he wrote poems about people so that they too will live on. And i think that is truly poetic.

How alive am i?