spacialexistentialcrisis

[spacialexistentialcrisis]

[spacialexistentialcrisis]

My bones are as empty as a bird’s yet feel as heavy as an elephant’s.

Empty, yet filled with the weight of worthlessness, despair, futility, and exhaustion.

Hollow bones that do not help with flight; rather, ground me, not healing but digging to go further down, piling dirt on me, keeping me away from the freedom the skies bring.

Bones that do not contain the calcium deposits of passion like I would hope, the osteoblasts of knowledge. The furious drive to roam the prairie looking for more, what more is to gain, to achieve, to attain is absent in my cells.

The filled emptiness seeps into the weird parts of me. The weird divot in the bridge of my nose, the insides of my ankles, the webbing between my fingers, the inside of my bellybutton. Sandbags of hopelessness in these odd areas that I do not know how to reach or extract without ripping off my entire skin, exposing muscles that have degenerated from uselessness.

The muscles that control my eyes have started to give up, give into the tiredness telling them to let go, sullen sleep. Tired of waking with the harsh pressure pounding behind them, telling me to go go go. Tired of crying, the tearducts empty but sobs continue to rip out from me. Crying for what, I ask myself. Tired of seeing but not feeling, not internalizing, not connecting. Tired of not having a flicker of life in the pupil, a dark gateway into the depths of a absent mind. Tired of trying to absorb and play catch up with everyone else racing ahead of me, going to places as far as their eyes can see.

(i say their eyes because I failed a vision test and now my eyes can only see what’s right in front of me. Must’ve been an early sign to my decline into a presbyopic day to day life)

The muscles in my limbs, used for the mundane when they once were hoped to be great. Each fiber feeling both ripped apart but also wound up so tight, the tension so thick I wait like a bomb about to explode. Though even with this inevitible countdown, I sit sullenly.

No urgency, no real fear (though the bugs of defeat and anxiety in my skin crawl around to keep the current of precevied fear going.) Full of apathy which turns to disgust with myself and the reminder that I am pathetic. Beacuse who else is to blame? When a baby gets hurt, they blame those who put the child in that situation, since it had no awareness.

How do you offset the blame of your own misgivings, your own lack of disipline, motivation, action. How do you do that without imposing blame on others? I didn't know better, but some people around me did, how did they and I didnt? How cruel and unfair.

I did not ask to be like this. My mind is full, has tried to push out the despair and hate, with ideas that I would love to create and be proud of. Bursting at the seams with life, but without the supplies of passion and energy, they die and fade like a blister. I did not want to be like this. I look at pictures of my youth, imagine talking to the little girl and telling her that yes I do want to write stories, I do want to go to space but I cant. Not for anything but the lack of whatever she had to have those dreams.

She would probably hate me. She never stopped dreaming, even though she couldnt start trying just yet. I stopped dreaming, even though I could always start trying again.

whats wrong with me? why cant i move? why am i frozen, cyrosleeping while aware of the mundanity of my existence? am i really this pathetic?

how dull.

{H.A}

SEC

[spacialexistentialcrisis]

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[spacialexistentialcrisis]

I often think of masjid carpets.

The word "masjid" will be used as an umbrella term for any prayer room found anywhere: airports, train stations, schools, shopping centers, workplaces, homes, hotels, businesses, shelters, public facilities, etc. The majority of masjids have the opportunity to have thick carpets, ones that are soft on the feet, whether it’s for a quick prayer before it’s time for the next or for long nights of Qiyam. Some carpets are elaborate, an arched design studded with flowers and shapes that gives individual space for each person, while others are simple, ordaining that we stand shoulder to shoulder, toe to toe. No matter what masjid, what color carpet, or what thickness each fiber has, whether individual prayer mats are used or not in the masjids that don’t have carpets, how large or how small the space is, I think about them.

I think about the stories in the carpet.

The significance of thick carpets is the carpet shading (when parts of the carpet tufts face another direction, causing it to be a different color, i.e., the phenomenon that we all intentionally created in these carpets when we were kids—or even now as adults—making little drawings during lectures or during prayer). In this quirk of the (literally) fabricated ground we stand on, you can briefly look into the lives of others and only imagine what it may be like with the little clues they left behind.

The clear etchmarks of a hand being dragged from the top of the carpet row to the bottom, someone letting their hands linger, rake through the carpet as they get up from prostrating (sujood). Is it them clinging to the position, showing their desperation? Why does it seem as though they were dragged up from bowing down, their fingers scrabbling for purchase in order to continue their prayer? What did they plead for, what did they quietly beg for into the soft ground, leaving the trail of their supplication in the carpet as evidence of their worship?

Handprints, footprints, knee prints (?) so clearly marked that they make you wonder how long one must stand to create such a foothold for others to mimic. As if rooting yourself to one spot, unmovable, unbreakable, and in that moment, untouchable. Locked in, asking for what you want, what you need, knowing it will be answered in one way, shape, or form. Really, how long do you have to stay sitting, standing, or kneeling that I can only imagine that you and the carpet had become fused together at one point, not knowing where one began and the other one ended, just leaving behind that small, big attestation of your existence in that moment.

The people.

What about the people?

A little game of tic-tac-toe in the carpet against the wall at the end of the third row. "I'm bored" written on the ground at the back of the room. The carpet tufts facing one direction, all a uniform color in the first row save for a small handprint with a smiley face next to it. The trail of the wheels of a stroller, staying towards the back so there isn't a disturbance within the rows. The quick pattern of the heels of feet as children chase each other between mothers and aunties, fathers and uncles as they wait to pray. The youth, all unaware that someone's day is made when they notice their many big, small markings that show they are present at the masjid.

All the other markings made—was it by someone who frequents the masjid every day? All 5 prayers and then some, maybe passing their time in the comfort of what is a second home. Someone who's face is a marker for the masjid, one that everyone recognizes and knows. Or was it by someone who is coming back after a long time, hoping to reconnect? The deep markings made by a person who is begging to come back, to allow themselves to become familiar with the carpet, the walls, the lights, the shelves, and the people of the masjid. Their heart soothed once the bottoms of their feet are comforted upon entering the prayer room. Or maybe it was someone who is in the middle, not an everyday goer but also not someone who is in need to rekindle the love after a long absence. Just a person who happened to be in the area, managing to catch the congregation (jama'ah) before its done, or stopping by to complete a prayer before the time is over. Maybe their markings are light and brief, being pressed for time, or maybe they took a breather and sat, taking in their surroundings as a gentle reminder, a warm welcome.

Perhaps the markings were made by a wayfarer, a traveler. A quick stop in an unfamiliar region in the only familiar place, where everything would be the same no matter where they are. The brief moments they spend in an area being in a place of worship before they move on toward their destination. Leaving the evidence of their prayer as a souvenir of themselves to share with the rest of the masjid goers, people they will never meet again in this world. Where else have the feet that made those footprints gone, where have they traveled to, and where are they coming from?

Maybe the markings are from someone who isn't with us anymore. Their handprints we cover with our own, the only physical memory of them left for the world to see. Was this the last place they visited before they went to rest? Unaware their time on this Earth was drawing to an end; do they regret not making enough of an indent, of being rushed toward nothing but the afterlife? Or maybe they did know their time was near, almost up, and the dragging of fingers we see in the carpet is their final act of worship, clinging and hoping it would be enough. The unique markings we see, that we will never see again.

The slate is then cleared; the carpet vacuumed, washed, cleaned, waiting to have more stories written in it.

The ones wiped away, still in my mind.

{H.A}

SEC

[spacialexistentialcrisis]

Oh to go off the grid and live as a farmer somewhere but not like needing to make profit just enough that maybe i can get myself some new books or a new paint set since my old one has run out from me painting the fields the mountains the lake the animals. occasionally make a trip back to the city to remind myself of society (of the horrors maybe), meet up with old friends. just need to not have worries anymore.

wish i could go missing for a little bit and no one would freak out and then i could come back and they'd be like "did you have fun going missing" and i'd be like "yeah, thanks" and then i could do that every couple of months or so and it wouldn't be a big deal

[spacialexistentialcrisis]

One of my favourite type of posts are the ones that show a group of people and the caption is something along the lines of “someone didn’t get the memo!” or “guess who couldn’t catch the vibe” or “let’s play let’s all wear/do this and not tell one person” but i don’t know what the vibe is supposed to be so i have to figure out between the 5 people who look like they all got the same vibe???? does something by very funny to the autism in the brain, reminds me of social cues that we probably are supposed to meet or something

[spacialexistentialcrisis]

"that took a lot of guts!"

yeah, all of them. I fear i have been gutted.

[spacialexistentialcrisis]

the devil’s whispers:

you can do it tomorrow (if you don’t do it now you’ll never do it ever)

you have a lot of time left (life is actually pretty short and we don’t have that much time)

you can skip this one little thing today (you are functioning solely due to the fact that you have a routine)

i must respond to this one thing that is bothering me immediately (you don’t have to do anything, it’s all in ur head)

I must check my phone (u don’t have to do anything, it’s all in ur head)

panicking is productive (panicking never makes a situation better, but in fact exacerbates it)

I must listen to music while doing the most minute task (u don’t have to do anything, it’s all in ur head. and I like music as much as the next person but moments of sheer silence are crucial)

I must befriend everyone (some people just don’t mesh together and that is ok)

I can skip working out for the day (working out does so much for ur physical AND mental health)

If misfortune happens to me it’s because I am uniquely unlucky (misfortune has nothing to do with preordained circumstances and everything to do with random odds)

If I am mistreated it’s because I am a horrible person and I deserve it (most times people are projecting their issues onto u and it has nothing to do with u)

if I make a mistake I am uniquely horrible (we are all human and we all make mistakes. the important thing is to hold ourselves accountable and learn from them)

I must have this one thing I really want now (u don’t have to do anything, it’s all in ur head. also whatever u want will still be here tomorrow so this sense of urgency is false)

I am uniquely hated/disliked/ostracized (most people are busy w their own lives and don’t have the time to be hating on u. and if they really are then their life is pretty empty and their opinion should not be held in high regard to begin with)

[spacialexistentialcrisis]

maybe friendships aren’t grand, bold, loud, outstanding. maybe it’s your little laugh i hear every time you text me somthing funny. maybe it’s the crinkle in the divot of your forehead that i’ve adopted when i see something puzzling. your habit of pursing your lips when you’re thinking. your little confused head tilt i feel my own cranium mimicking. maybe i feel my spirit, weakened burned bloody bruised hurt, lift its head in happiness a little bit when i’m around you. or maybe it bows its head with you sometimes. maybe my soul isn’t entwined with yours but held hands, or stood side by side. or maybe it’s just i blink three times before ordering because you blink three times before ordering.

maybe i remember you everyday, my cells have attuned with yours, my personalities missing puzzle pieces were your own fragments, my home is your home and this world is just our stage, but our characters are forever playing for the audience that is each other.

[spacialexistentialcrisis]

the fact that i still cling to the ideal hope (possible delusion) that people are naturally good and giving the benefit of the doubt is the best course of action 😔

[spacialexistentialcrisis]

You’re not gonna read this all the way through, I guarantee it. You’re not you’re not you’re not because you’re now the slave of the government, and you have no autonomy over yourself you loser, you mindless idiot.

The mental battle between knowing that your attention span is actively being forced to be shortened and also giving into the small boosts of serotonin and endorphins we keep receiving is hideous. Actively scrolling on tiktok and consistently thinking “oh i got put this down and do something” but then when it’s put down, you can’t stop craving it. This dependency on short form information is gonna lead to our society turning more and more dystopian, as we start to ignore any long form (normal amount) information being projected to us. We’re going to be given articles without clickbait titles that impart important information but it will be overlooked because we can’t coax our brains to stay focused for more than 5 seconds, and given articles with clickbait that makes our brain feel happy and important that are filled with stupid idiocity for us to consume.

Filtration of content and desensitization will increase (and we see it happening right now before our eyes) which are all signs of a dystopian society. All of you hunger games, divergent, Fahrenheit 451, dystopian fans in general need to realize we are most likely living the world James Orwell thought if in 1984, but we refuse to realize it because of the system doesn’t allow us to realize it. Are you really letting them control the one thing that you have full autonomy over? are you a pawn? I love to preach about how individualism is the downfall of our society and that collective community will allow us to flourish, but remember individualism and independence are two different things and you are starting to lose your independence, whether you realize it or not. Sheep-mind set, hive-mind set, individual mind set who CARES when you trace it all back they’re the SAME THING everyone is the same freaking person, have we not already debunked original experiences????

The government does NOT give a SHIT about you, you’re not delusional enough (i hope) to think that they care about you as an individual, but you are delusional enough (unfortunately) to think they care about you as a group and a people as humans.

REMINDER: YOU ARE NOT HUMAN IN THE EYES OF THE GOVERNMENT, YOURE NOT A NUMBER YOURE NOT ANYTHING BUT A MEANS OF PASSAGE FOR OTHERS (self proclaimed elite in particular) TO STEP ON FOR THEIR OWN GAIN.

Reclaim your own self dammit. What have you become? Is this what you want to be? Who you want to be? You stupid wretched simpleton (are you one?)

[spacialexistentialcrisis]

i’m a HUGE complimenter and i do not say that to brag. Even if somthing doesn’t really particularly stick out to ME but I can tell maybe someone put thought in to it, or even if it’s just something they haven’t thought of, giving a random compliment doesn’t hurt anyone and if anything adds a little skip in their step, and maybe you’ve turned yourself into a character of their life story.

[spacialexistentialcrisis]

heart break truly, like was i not put on this earth for its wonders? to experience life and the miracles of this cool planet? i do not think i was supposed to have reports put on a miserable persons desk by 5 as my purpose in life

[spacialexistentialcrisis]

With the adequate amount of supplies and vampire like life span, i really would like to float around in space. bump against an steroid or two, skip past a mesmerizing and quizzical black hole, explore a new planet, run (float faster?) past a terrifying white hole, puzzle over dark matter, witness the miracle of birth (of a star), be there for the final moments of life (of a star), become an enigma (a star). The children yearn for the mines while i yearn for the countless galaxies, space blips, moon dust and the lack of anything but presence of everything.

i think it would be a nice little reset for the brain.

[spacialexistentialcrisis]

will the good continue to go on?

yes, while you enjoy it.

will the bad continue to go on?

yes, while you allow it.

[spacialexistentialcrisis]

the slow realization that maybe MAYBE someone might find your presence pleasing, that you DO make others smile, that in fact YOU deserve happiness for YOURSELF and that it won’t kill you you to observe your own beauty as you do your flaws, is very pleasantly unpleasent, as growth does.

[spacialexistentialcrisis]

Don’t need to carry the weight of the world, or push the weight of it in others. Don’t need to be the richest or the poorest, because at the end of the day, we’re all dead men walking aren’t we?