Passion’s Poison

My Symphony: The Face by Kings Of Leon

My second thought, which might even be considered a bit of a worry – is that you might someday actually run out of insights. That you’ll run dry. Have nothing more to add. Just get redundant all to hell. — Ian Moar

Because I haven’t been in school for three consecutive days (it’s a big deal), I’ve pretty much spent my long weekend [extended version] doing what I usually do on weekends– being me. And that means a lot of things. It means waking up at ten in the morning, taking a long lukewarm shower, eating brunch, reading a couple of chapters from a novel, listening to music, de-cluttering my shelves, eating dinner, downing numerous shots of ice-cold water,  and spending the rest of the days doing the same set of “activities” all over again. To be honest, this doesn’t bother me. The fact that I can get through weekends without getting high and wasted like most people my age do is perfectly fine with me. I don’t look at it as a case of a subconsciously self-inflicted misguided intervention. In all honesty, I even feel like this is who I really am [at the moment]. The only thing that seems to slightly make me think is my knowledge that I used to be so “active” in the real world, and now I barely even exist in reality. It’s mind-bugling.

So yesterday I was going over my old posts here in my blogsite. I don’t normally do this. I told myself when I first started this online journal four years ago that I will give it a significant amount of time before I revisit my ancient writings; I told myself that I should wait until I’m 25 and successful before I read the things I wrote when I was just a whiny little teenager. But I couldn’t help it. I re-read about twenty-one of my entries here on a fateful day in August 2012, and I discovered several things.

First, I discovered that, indeed, writing is the art of discovering what you believe. Most of my posts feature my take on different things, how I perceive things are and how I believe things should be. And usually when I write I don’t really know what it is that I think about something until I’ve begun writing the second paragraph and everything just sinks in to me. It’s magic. This is probably the reason why I fell in love with my own journal. It amazes me, the fresh things I learn from my old insights.

Second, I discovered that while documenting noteworthy bits of my life is going to be beneficial to me someday, it can also be misleading in the present time. After I read those 21 entries yesterday, memories of what was instantly came to mind and heart. I’ve always known that I am a very sentimental human being. And people close to me know how much I value things even from the past. Good or bad, I keep them in my heart and I don’t mind them staying there even when it comes to a point where it hurts.  Give me a silver bracelet, an album, a used bottle of perfume or a candy wrapper and I’ll still have it with me until the day I die (no kidding). I mean, I was de-cluttering one of my book shelves where I keep my old stuff yesterday and even I am amazed at how sentimental I am. Sometimes I just shrug the thought off, but after seeing literally everything every person in my life has given to me for the past ten years well kept and well organized in my “little” stuff box, it’s a whole different story. Now it begins to scare me. I’m scared that this might be a sort of a psychological problem or worse, that I am one of those people who, at the end of the day, just can’t seem to move on. This might not be entirely the case, though. I know myself well enough to understand that I just give a lot of value to the things people give to me. That’s just how I operate. And it doesn’t matter if people change. Because those things will never change. Memories never change. Just like the amount of truth and importance of my entries in this journal will never change.

Third, I discovered that I have a lot of self-conflictive entity living inside my head. If you’re one of the four people I know who have read every single entry in this site, you already know what I mean by this. My ideas seem to always clash. This has something to do with my indecisive nature, and it definitely has something to do with my realization that I am such a mutable character with an effervescent soul. That’s why I have come to the conclusion that I am in a constant battle against myself. Everything that happens inside my head is just so convoluted.

Fourth, I discovered that Ian is right. I am gradually becoming redundant with my writing. It has started to feel like the things I write have been similar to each other in some ways. It feels like the gist of all my chronicles are all the same sh*t, just with different titles, choice of words, dates of publication and circumstances. I feel like I have turned into an untalented writer who keeps on denying that he’s been writing nothing but a parade of argumentum ad nauseam. Should I be worried? Being a literature and communications enthusiast, I am convinced that this might be the early stages of a major artistic downfall. Maybe, maybe not. The only thing that somehow gears me away from that though is the probability that maybe it’s not just me. I have read a lot of stuff in my life, and if I come to think of it, all of the novels written since the dawn of history have profound similarities too. And not just novels. Even movies, songs and plays are pretty much all the same in retrospect. So I still do not know if I have lost my flair in writing or if life is just too repetitive by nature.

There will come a time when all of us are dead. All of us. There will come a time when there are no human beings remaining to remember that anyone ever existed or that our species ever did anything. There will be no one left to remember Aristotle or Cleopatra, let alone you. Everything that we did and built and wrote and thought and discovered will be forgotten and all of this will have been for naught. Maybe that time is coming soon and maybe it is millions of years away, but even if we survive the collapse of our sun, we will not survive forever. There was time before organisms experienced consciousness, and there will be time after. And if the inevitability of human oblivion worries you, I encourage you to ignore it. God knows that’s what everyone else does.
― John Green

Finally, I discovered that none of what I wrote will matter someday. Someday, all of this will mean nothing to me, to my readers, to anyone. Just like what John Green stated in his book The Fault In Our Stars, a day will come when none of what’s going on in this crazy world right now will ever matter. I have long questioned the purpose of my writings. Not consciously, but I have. I am aware that there is this stereotypical notion going on about writers being lost lonely souls. And I ask myself, “Is being a lost lonely soul a cause or an effect?”. Given the way I chose to live my life, I thought it was a cause. But now I’m second guessing. Maybe it’s the other way around. Maybe it is the effect of a lot of things: of fears, of insecurities, of self-manipulation, of a bitter past and of the lack of willingness and openness to fully start over. Now I know why I even decided to write this post. I’m writing this post because it may be the last one for a long time.

The issue isn’t my sentimental nature, or the dangers in my conflictive-convoluted mind, or the fact that I am becoming a writer merely beating around the bush; Really, the issue here is my awareness that while I am pouring my guts out to a blank document in the World Wide Web, I could be a source of life and inspiration to someone out there on a personal level. That’s it. All of this boils down to the fact that I am writing to no one. I am not a lonely lost soul. I will be if I don’t get my act together, but I’m not. Not at the moment. I think that it is a choice. It has dawned to me that if  I really want to have something I never had, I’m gonna have to do something I never did. And it starts with training myself to take a break from the inside of my head, and try living in the real world again.

The real world is messy. It really is. There is no doubt about that. But I think that it’s time for me to give life a chance. I am now pushing my luck that someday, I will no longer have to tell my thoughts, ideas, stories and emotions to an empty continuum, but to an actual person with a kindred soul who is genuinely willing to listen to what my heart has to say all along.

2 thoughts on “Passion’s Poison

  1. Kenn – I just picked up my laptop from a repair shop and have been thinking about a few of your previous postings – which I’ll likely comment on sometime soon. Undoubtedly, I’m also going to add a few responses of mine to this particular posting of yours – but the first thing that crossed my mind has to do this Introduction on one of friend Russell Maier’s websites (

    I guess it deals with beginnings and endings of things – and I actually have an issue with it – a perhaps objective complaint about the practice he describes and promotes. But read that Introduction first before I share an opionion:

    – – – – – – – – – – – – –

    “But Mandalas are alot more than what you see. They are above all a process. In the Tibetan tradition, monks would work together for weeks building an intricate mandala from coloured grains of sand. Their meticulous geometric creations began with a prayer and would be guided by an intention – a mandala celebrating peace would have certain symbols, numbers and colours, whereas a mandala for blessing a new temple, others. The monks would work together in silence, each fulfilling the required element of the mandala when its time came. The process, a harmonious symphony of coordination, was as much an art as the beautiful end creation. The final creation would come to bless a temple or public space upon its completion.

    The process of creating a mandala can be applied to other endeavours. Through the 1Mandala we are mandalically co-creating beautiful blessings around the world as we work together in symphony around an intention. When the Tibetan monks had completed their mandala and allowed it be enjoyed for a time, they would then destroy it. The sand would be swept together obliterating weeks of work. Why? It was a profound reminder that nothing was permanent. The monks would then take the sand and sprinkle it in rivers and streams to share the coalesced positive energy with the rest of the world.”

    – – – – – – – – – – – –

    Generally speaking, Kenn – I’m a contrarian – always looking for the ways things hold up or fall apart, how my own ‘system’ I’ve formulated can possibly stand the test of time. When I read the above quotations, my mind immediately figured that these monks, although perhaps high-minded, are peddling a ‘process’ no different than the Catholic Church has done throughout its history of influence.

    How can their process of destroying a mandala display a profound understanding how nothing is permanent, when those same like-minded monks, wearing their chosen garb and following their never-ending practices, haul out the specifically coloured sand for any particular blessing, then destroy it – and assume that ‘process’ displays impermance? It’s simpy a never-ending cycle of repeatable events. Same intentions. Same supposed blessings or results.

    However, adherents believe the hype. They swallow the professed line. They follow the leaders. Never-endingly.

    Kenn – I have been adding more to your blog site than my own lately (Facebook or because I have nothing more to add to my own at this point – or until the situation changes. I’ll just let things coast along until I figure I have something worthwhile to say on that site. Instead, I hope I’m occasionally finding something worthwhile to say on yours. Or not. haha

    Anyways, young man – those of us who follow your journey know you indeed are not a follower – and we both value and admire the insights you share with us, the suffering and joy you plow through to discover them – and the bravery and risk it takes to be as deep and open as you are.

    I’m glad you see that we occasionally need to take a break from who we are and from the routines we have fallen into. Otherwise we’d just be driving pilons into the ground of our own chosen doctrines or dogma – staking them down so nothing could budge or change. Just know there’s all the room in the world to come up again for air, to foster a new flowering of your beautiful spirit. Tomorrows can always have room for dynamic energies to flow. Maybe that’s the only thing that creates our tomorrow’s anyways – the hope for things not yet realized or understood?

    I suppose I should depart this first visit to mention that John Green, just like me, is simply peddling his own chosen belief system. Don’t necessarily believe that his view of God is true, or that the universe will continue to exist without us. Maybe we are indeed the centre of the universe – and it needn’t exist or survive after our departure or if we mutate into new and more profound forms in other realities. I guess it depends on what you think most permanent and important – his God, the rock we live on – or the soul of mankind.

  2. Kenn – I have been in a bit of a funk for two days. Meanwhile, an older friend dropped off his most recent copy of Maclean’s Magazine (August 13th edition) as he typically does – and even seeing a short ‘Letter to the Editor’ of mine published hasn’t been able to lift my mood. Nor has the arrival today of neat couple I enjoy in this RV Park. What’s going on?

    I now realize what’s happened – and it’s primarily the result of absorbing more of this recent post of yours. I believe I have so connected with you and your writing these last few weeks that your threatened departure is something I’m not handling well. I’m experiencing a new void in my life – an emptiness – and I’m not liking it.

    You have never met me, Kenn – and I need to inform you that I’ve easily met thousands and thousands of people in my life – always yearning to encounter a person or people exactly like you. Now I have to perhaps deal with your departure for a while – or complete disappearance.

    The image that came immediately to mind was me hurtling along some train track, ensconced in my own life, sitting in my own passenger car – which is filled to the brink with personal stories and observations, lessons learned and pocketsful of experiences. All of a sudden, my train whips past another train heading the opposite direction just as fast – on tracks parallel to mine. I catch a glimpse of the only passenger on that speeding train, and from a glance in his eyes immediately ascertain that I’ve encountered a kindred soul.

    At least picturing the scenario this way makes it more understandable – though no easier to handle. Kenn – I hope I didn’t put you off with my remark about redundancy. You are obviously bright enough to inform us that mankind as always been just repeating the same story from the get-go. Maybe we’re all looking for something we haven’t yet found – and I think you should recognize that your personal yearnings and struggles are aiding us all immensely in this search. Not all will listen and not all will care. But I will and do.

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