Difference-less streets
and
all-round walkers
crossed me on the road.
The Monsoon potholes,
family scooters,
stilled trees,
tangoed to the rain.
Fat breezes
woke up the tadpoles
and the souls
dulled by the dusty fates.
None
there
to give
a kind shade
to my Samsung
and my young lungs.
So many
flammable stirrings
all
yearning
a mystical dance
under the 4G clouds.
— Drunken drops.
Definitely not. Being a Dostoevskyian is sick and saddening. Why should any suffering have meaning at all? And we never search for meaning while we are happy. Is it to accept the helplessness and then seek some pride in it?
Friedrich Nietzsche says that what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. But suffering rarely made any men stronger. Either they get used to it or become egotistical to accept that they too are weak and can weep.
Even after the Nth time, pain cripples us but humanity and so-called self-advertised strong men find it hard to swallow it.
This has a negative consequence—No one is seeking out help and is crushing their lives simply in the name of being stoic. This is a disease and a plague for us all.
They are dumping the waste into the subconscious and growing their Jungian “shadows” and society is raising sociopaths in the name of strong Spartans.
Acknowledging this can heal the sore souls and spoiled spirits. It’s time to stop searching for meaning in martyrdom and affection in affliction.
Thy Vox