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Just a Post

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Like one of my dear friend's post explains, , I have also, always, been a misanthrope. I don't know what made me one. I don't know since when i have become one. But I know that I have been one ever since I can remember. Maybe it was my troubled childhood that led to the eventual distrust I have in mankind. I realised when I was a child itself, that I will never be able to understand the human society or "fit into" it. I've never wanted to and I've never tried to "fit into" the society either. Everywhere I looked, I saw pretensions, and I saw to what extends people will give up their integrity and individuality to "fit in". And it reaffirmed my conception about the pathetic state we humans live in. We are all scared. We live our lives in fear of one thing or the other.   And we always need something to fear about. That uncertainty fuels our will to live for a tomorrow. We never are satisfied with today. We always hope for a better
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Of Insomnia and other things

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So, it is 3 in the morning and i don't want to sleep. But i don't want to work either cos my brain is too clogged and i cant think straight. i cant go for a walk or anything cos it is too cold outside (and honestly, physical strain is way beyond something i can even understand, let alone enjoy). maybe i should watch something. but as i said before, my brain is too clogged to understand or comprehend anything i see or hear. so now what? This is the worst kind of disease to become a victim of and in this place it is almost contagious. I don't exactly remember since when i've become an insomniac. but now, it feels like i've been like this forever. and it is not like i don't enjoy sleep. i jus don't fall asleep wen i try to. maybe i shud never try doing anything. cos every tym i try, it is as though fate (or God) or life is mocking me. i never achieve anything i try for but i always get more satisfaction for things i get vthout even trying for it. for in
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Hmmm...?

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I just tumbled upon this quote of Camus, and now I cant stop thinking about it: In a sense, and as in melodrama, killing yourself amounts to confessing. It is confessing that life is too much for you or that you do not understand it. Let's not go too far in such analogies, however, but rather return to everyday words. It is merely confessing that it is not worth the trouble. Living, naturally, is never easy. You continue making the gestures commanded by existence for many reasons, the first of which is habit. Dying voluntarily implies that you have recognized, even instinctively, the ridiculous nature of that habit, the absence of any profound reason for living, the insane character of that daily agitation and the uselessness of suffering. - Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus
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