supergold#2
sapphic, suicidal, and stupid
- Oct 20, 2024
- 76
it's an early morning, the little hours so commonly romanticized by the neurodivergant, the dirty hippies, and whatever half-drunk stragglers still almost miraculously have managed to keep themselves upright til now.
cut to our protaganist, somewhere along the insomniatic slow mental decline, either unknowing or unbothered, it matters not, for this is bliss.
this once christened twilight to a now-failed poetry attempt, she's suddenly found herself in territory yet unknown, still unaware of what's lurking over the horizen.
goodreads. a place she'd previously attributed to tired housewives and those yet to discover the art of science journal piracy.
the first anniversary of the death of her closest friend has opened up old wounds, and in doing so has found herself transfixed in russian existentialist analyses on the moral ethics of suicide.
to her suprise, tolstoy's confession is much more honest in it's own self reflective nature than she'd ever imagined.
despite being written before engels and marx had coined the term "dialectics", tolstoy seems almost flawless in his application, from contradiction to solution, re-analyze, go again, over and over until there was no further contradiction left to find.
like any good cadre to the people's revolution of her bedroom, she wanted more, so why not turn to the author's critically aclaimed "masterpiece"? "surely it's just as poignent and analytical as confessions", she thought?
cue the metaphysics and masturbatory self aclaim, tolstoy seemed to disregard any semblance of his former work, but rather allowed his first conclusion to become an absolute. for a man that hated structured religion, i can't help but feel like all he really wanted was to be seen as a prophet, nothing that he ever though could be untrue, every critic was just a man who needed god.
picture my digust in digging deeper just to find out this man was best friends with fucking ghandi, was a slave owner and a landlord, and held the view that proletariat revolution was on the same level with the tsarist rule.
cue an unexpected bpd split and suddenly i remember the myth of sysaphus and how camus's conclusion is just: yeah, no, eternal damnation actually seems pretty fun, just mind your business.
and herein lies my standing on these dweebs: the flagrent disregard for the suffering of other, even, their joy or holyness gleemed from that pain reflects the moral character of proto-fascists, and though now dead, i cannot find spiritual peace until I've protracted a peoples war of my fists into their skull cavitys
and thus speaks the idiot girl going on 3 days without sleep
also, sorry, i completely lost motivation about halfway through writing this and it probably shows lmao
cut to our protaganist, somewhere along the insomniatic slow mental decline, either unknowing or unbothered, it matters not, for this is bliss.
this once christened twilight to a now-failed poetry attempt, she's suddenly found herself in territory yet unknown, still unaware of what's lurking over the horizen.
goodreads. a place she'd previously attributed to tired housewives and those yet to discover the art of science journal piracy.
the first anniversary of the death of her closest friend has opened up old wounds, and in doing so has found herself transfixed in russian existentialist analyses on the moral ethics of suicide.
to her suprise, tolstoy's confession is much more honest in it's own self reflective nature than she'd ever imagined.
despite being written before engels and marx had coined the term "dialectics", tolstoy seems almost flawless in his application, from contradiction to solution, re-analyze, go again, over and over until there was no further contradiction left to find.
like any good cadre to the people's revolution of her bedroom, she wanted more, so why not turn to the author's critically aclaimed "masterpiece"? "surely it's just as poignent and analytical as confessions", she thought?
cue the metaphysics and masturbatory self aclaim, tolstoy seemed to disregard any semblance of his former work, but rather allowed his first conclusion to become an absolute. for a man that hated structured religion, i can't help but feel like all he really wanted was to be seen as a prophet, nothing that he ever though could be untrue, every critic was just a man who needed god.
picture my digust in digging deeper just to find out this man was best friends with fucking ghandi, was a slave owner and a landlord, and held the view that proletariat revolution was on the same level with the tsarist rule.
cue an unexpected bpd split and suddenly i remember the myth of sysaphus and how camus's conclusion is just: yeah, no, eternal damnation actually seems pretty fun, just mind your business.
and herein lies my standing on these dweebs: the flagrent disregard for the suffering of other, even, their joy or holyness gleemed from that pain reflects the moral character of proto-fascists, and though now dead, i cannot find spiritual peace until I've protracted a peoples war of my fists into their skull cavitys
and thus speaks the idiot girl going on 3 days without sleep
also, sorry, i completely lost motivation about halfway through writing this and it probably shows lmao
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