Terminate

The World is redundant. There are no questions, as there are no answers. There is nothing.

If there is nothing, then what is everything?

This is precisely what I mean.

If I stop caring about everything, I start caring about everything.

Creation. Destruction. Creation. Destruction.

If you leave, I will be sad but I will understand, because that’s mainly what I do. I understand. Everything. Everyone.

Even if I try to convince myself otherwise, I know you will never be as in love with me as I am with you, because as much as I try to think that I’m free of everything, I am the most tied down human being in the world, and you are not.

If I am drowning in an endless sea and I see something to hold on to, should I try to grab it? Will I ever really stop drowning? Will this new lifeline eventually run out again?

Creation. Destruction. Creation. Destruction.

If I’m rebellious and artistic, was that something I was born with or did my education make me be like this? Am I really rebellious and artistic? Do I pretend to be? If I started by pretending, where does the pretending end and reality begin? Where does my lying become the truth?

If I have already dared to declare my attraction towards you, is that really the end of my problems? Should I be nervous about declaring my love for you? Is my love for you real, or am I forcing myself to love you? Do I do this often? How do I know if I have ever really been in love?

Our reality is based on mirrors. Without mirrors, we know not that we exist. We can see our hands, we can see our feet, we can see our nose, yet we cannot be sure that we are actually anywhere.

When we move a muscle, we don’t actually think about it. We just do it. How do we do it? What is the difference between thinking and moving a muscle?

I try not to think of the fact, but I know there is a huge obstacle between us. I know I am just a passing thought in your mind. This is the fabricated truth. This is me. This is the me that no one really loves. This is the me that nobody actually cares about. This is the me that I’m so certain is not real.

It would be great if I weren’t real. I’m so tied down by all my questions, so tied down by all my answers, so completely afraid of everything and everyone. So hopeless, so depressive, so unattractive, so hidden, so weak, so stupid, so jealous, so paranoid, so  lost.

Creation. Destruction. Creation. Destruction.

The Quiet Weatherman Theory

Predictions are made by putting together previous strings of events and observing a pattern. If the pattern has repeated itself enough times in the past, you can formulate a nearly certain prediction. For example, in this particular geographical position, everyone can pretty much predict that the sun will come out tomorrow. Some will even go so far as saying it will come out at 7:00 AM. We KNOW the sun will come out tomorrow because every day of our lives the sun has come out and every single day of our lives the sun has set. Sure, it may be cloudy and we might not SEE the sun, but we know it’s there. People living in the south pole or Alaska might not be so brave as to predict that the sun will come out tomorrow for sure, because they know the sun actually comes out every thirty days or so. But I digress, predictions must be based on experience or empirical knowledge. This is how we predict most events, based on the past.

The Quiet Weatherman Theory is a very simple concept, yet it has a universe of applications and examples. When we predict the weather, we base ourselves on the past and try to predict the future. If the wind is blowing towards a particular direction, the clouds will move with it and therefore, it will rain. Weather has never been keen on giving a damn about what anybody thinks, so maybe it won’t rain. However, you have already made a prediction and, in that sense, you have failed horribly. People’s hopes depend on the weatherman. Whether people go out or stay in depends on what the weatherman thinks. People think they have the right to judge the weatherman if he is wrong.

The Quiet Weatherman is based on the fact that there’s a group of people capable of predicting everything perfectly, based on experience. There is a group of illuminated people that can tell exactly what is going to happen to every single one of us. They understand the tiny rules of the universe and therefore are now much wiser than any of us. They know, and they don’t say anything.

If you stay quiet, there is no chance of being wrong. Not that they would ever be wrong, but that fear is always there. The moment you predict something, you change it. The mere fact that you said it out loud changes the future. Life is like a jealous girlfriend that wants only to be the opposite side of the argument. The Quiet Weatherman stays quiet and says nothing and only nods in approval when he sees things happen.

With enough effort, we can all become Quiet Weathermen, but why bother?

The Truth Behind The Plastic Bag

Truth is harsh. Sometimes, we fabricate the truth. One of the truths that plague my life, for example, is the constant thought that people don’t really like me, but just stand me as a person most of the time. In this fashion, I believe myself to be so unbearable, that no one ever will truly love me in spite of my shortcomings. Much to the contrary, I believe myself to be so annoying that everybody will come to hate me someday, or every day for that matter.

Although I pride myself on being an illuminated person, the word here meaning “Someone who thinks the understand everything about the world and how life works”, I know that I hold no bigger knowledge than an average fly. I have come to realize the world has already been through several iterations, and it’s really hard to try to change anything without destroying everything. Maybe that’s why I long for destruction; for death. If we all go back to zero, then we all get to start again. There are too many greedy, manipulating people in the world, to stand foolishly in a podium and propose a revolution. Revolutions never work. They never work for long at least, because you don’t destroy anything. You merely build again on the poor foundations you had before. These poor foundations based on fabricated truths that only benefit a certain sector of the population, and that years later the new generations of goodwill try to change and are instead faced with corrupt principles and corrupt people who stand in their way. It is not enough to destroy these people, because from their ashes, new seeds of corruption will emerge, and we will have to start again. No, real change comes from complete destruction.

It is complete destruction that permits the world to try again. We do not reuse elements, because from old elements, old principles will return. No, we must create a new iteration. This is one of the truths I know. This is one of the truths I made up. We are all made of light and dark. We are all made of creation and destruction. Yet, we are not fit to create. No one is fit to create. No human is fit to create. We are imperfect. We are dumb. We are arrogant. Yet, we consider ourselves fit to create and destroy. We may have some right to destruction, but only if we bring the destruction of ourselves along with others.

This is the way I have found of creating destruction. There words are all I need to destroy my small little universe, because I am enlightened. I can see everything. Everyone can see everything, but most of us are blind. It is only when we open our eyes that we realize we don’t need anything. We must destroy everything, because we don’t need anything, and it’s too late to change it.

If I could shake hands with god, I would undoubtedly congratulate him on the great job he has done, but I would tell him I could do better.

Some Words I Found That I Will Probably Use In The Future

Cheiloproclitic – Being attracted to someones lips.
Apodyopis – The act of mentally undressing someone.
Gymnophoria – The sensation that someone is mentally undressing you.
Capernoited – Slightly intoxicated or tipsy.
Lalochezia – The use of abusive language to relieve stress or ease pain.
Cataglottism – Kissing with tongue.
Basorexia – An overwhelming desire to kiss.
Wanweird – An unhappy fate.
Dystopia – Am imaginary place of total misery. A metaphor for hell.
Petrichor – The smell of dry rain on the ground.
Anagapesis – The feeling when one no longer loves someone they once did.
Malapert – Clever in manners of speech.
Strikhedonia – The pleasure of being able to say “to hell with it”.
Lygerastia – The condition of one who is only amorous when the lights are out.
Ayurnamat – The philosophy that there is no point in worrying about events that cannot be changed.
Sphallolalia – Flirtatious talk that leads no where.
Druxy – Something which looks good on the outside, but is actually rotten inside.
Mamihlapinatapei – The look between two people in which each loves the other but is too afraid to make the first move.

How Am I Not Myself?

It’s no secret that I’m frequently in love. It’s no secret that I love intensely. Today, I want to share something about me, something I may have written before, but something I have to write mainly because I need to get it our of my system. Coming up to my 14 years of life, I had always been a nice, mature child obsessed with being what everyone wanted him to be. I made my homework, I studied diligently, I rarely made fun of anybody. When I turned 14 something happened and I changed. That change has made itself more evident as I grow up. Now, I’m 21 years old. I want to be a writer.

I’m impatient. I think way too fast and that had brought me my fair share of problems so far. One thing I can tell you for sure is I apologize to no one. Sure, that’s not to be taken in a literal context because I’m constantly apologizing to everyone. My point is sometimes we take different more challenging paths that we should have. Sure, you could be a lawyer or a doctor or an engineer and have a successful life and a beautiful model wife and two perfect kids in your Malibu beach house, but sometimes we don’t want that. Sometimes we want to be dangerous. Sometimes we want to take things way too fast. We don’t have to apologize to anyone for this. The way I chose as my way is precisely what I want to do. Not what I’m supposed to do. Not what people expect me to do. It’s what I, deep down, truly want to do.

Sure, I fall in love quickly, but all poets do. Sure, I’m depressive often, most writers are. Sure, I may seem like all over the place and suddenly go quiet and just stare at something for a long time, most thinking people do. That’s who I am. That’s who I want to be. I want to kiss my loved one for hours and just stare at her eyes until I feel I’ve had enough and then kiss some more. I like to constantly declare my identity, because I like my identity. I like me. I built me. I’ll never get tired of saying it and I couldn’t care less about what other people think. I’m in love. Fuck everything else.

I’m Nikolas Murdock.

It's 3:16 AM and I'm writing in my blog.

it’s late, and can’t really sleep and it’s the third day in a row that I can’t really sleep and I don’t really know why. I was honestly very excited because i had finally found someone I actually wanted to be with for a while and not just some temporary crush, but it’s in a daze that I write this. I know that you won’t read this, so I’m pretty much free to express whatever I want here. It’s like my private little diary, only I let other people read it. Since the beginning I’ve been wondering if I actually like you or if this is just another one of the ways my brain wants me to be happy. Lately I’ve felt that you like me too, at least you tell me so. I know for a fact that sometimes, when you talk to me, you perceive everything as fake or not real enough. This was also true with the last girl I was in love with. It’s a pattern that repeats itself several times over. First I tell you that I like you. Then I write you pretty things. As long as you don’t have to face me physically, it’ll all be very pretty to you. It’ll all be nice and fake and wrapped in a nice plastic coating. Maybe the feelings I have for you are fake too. Maybe all the things I think I love about you are desperate measures to hold on to something. Maybe I shouldn’t write anything nice for you anymore because you’ll be far away for a while and I am a really impatient person and anyway it’s easier for you to be far away because that way you won’t have to confront any of this in reality. You’ll just lay on your bed and I’ll be several miles away writing about how much I like your eyes and your lips and all the pretty things that I think about you and you won’t really have to believe any of it because I couldn’t possibly like so many things about you. I couldn’t possibly love that many things about you. You’ll probably call me a fool or talk with your friends about how naive I am and how I have the mental stability of a twelve year old and how you’re constantly telling me how you like that but it’s actually just an elaborate prank to make me feel loved. I can’t help but believe that you’re playing with me for when I ask “When will I see you?” you seldom answer or just change the subject. It saddens me to think that I’m this obsessed with you. I thought I had learned to keep my feelings in check, and now I’m head-over-heels for you and I’m starting to believe that all that stuff you tell me about you liking me and wanting to be with me is actually a complete load of crap. It really saddens me to a point where I can’t really sleep and it’s the third day in a row that I can’t sleep and I don’t really know why. It’s sad because recently all I had been thinking about was you, and how you made me feel. I felt happy. I felt like finally you had fallen in love with me without me having to convince you of anything. Things don’t work that way. Things don’t usually work that way. I can’t keep believing that you’re searching as hard within me as I’m searching within you. I can’t expect you to melt with the stuff I write you because I know you are not the kind the girl that melts easily and that bothers me sometimes. It’s a challenge I accept gladly, but it also bothers me sometimes. It makes me very sad that I’m really into you and you say you’re really into me but won’t say anything about seeing me and I’m not even sure what you say is true. maybe I’m just a fucking idiot and this was never going to work anyway and I should just give up and keep zombieing across school every day or slit my wrists or find something else to do with the time I spent talking to you.

I was so excited too…

So, writing a post in spanish is not so bad

Nunca he sido bueno en la poesía. Pero me gusta pensar que para todo lo demás soy buen escritor. Y sólo como introducción, no soy la clase de persona que se burla de los demás y no uso camisas polo porque siento que me hacen ver como un completo idiota y cambio mi pantalón cada tres días porque me gusta el número tres y decir las cosas tres veces y decir las cosas tres veces y decir las cosas tres veces.

Me gusta estar consciente de todo lo que hay alrededor de mi y Sandra dice que soy un metiche y yo le digo que solo soy muy observador

Antes no podía hacerlo y ahora no puedo apagarlo y cuando voy en la calle todo lo que puedo pensar es una, dos , tres cuatro personas, dos casadas, clase media, no manejan, vienen de un restaurante, solo dos de ellos tomaron alcohol, probablemente cerveza, uno de ellos trabaja con las manos en algún oficio, el otro tiene trabajo de oficina, las dos mujeres son una de las esposas y…no la novia, sino la chica que le gusta al otro, hay poco contacto físico. El hombre de oficina va apurado viendo el reloj, debe ser porque es martes y es la hora de la comida, probablemente tiene que regresar al trabajo

Y trato, trato de apagarlo pero no puedo no puedo no puedo

Y cuando te veo digo oh dios mío trae puestas medias, como me gustan las medias, oh dios mío es pelirroja, oh dios mío que bonito articula palabras y mueve sus labios y mueve sus manos y que bonito camina y oh dios mío el lado izquierdo de su cara es tan precioso como el derecho y oh dios mío como me gustaría besarla justo ahora

y digo calma

calma

tiempo

no seas impaciente

y quiero ver la lluvia junto a ti y ver la noche junto a ti y ver el amanecer junto a ti y sentarme junto a ti en un centro comercial y saber que no tengo que observar a nadie mas que a ti y ver tus ojos y tus pestañas y tus lentes y la forma en que mi reflejo en tus lentes no está viendo a nadie más que a ti y que no hay nada mas que quisiera hacer mas que tomar tu mano

y digo calma

calma

y supongo que por tanto tiempo me acostumbré a la idea de que todo el mundo menos yo era un idiota y que todas las chicas en el mundo eran tontas y andaban con pelmazos y que realmente a nadie le importaba que escribieras prosa o dibujaras precioso o que fueras un chico que realmente le importaba tratar a una mujer como una princesa y hablarle todo el día y hacerle preguntas y dedicarte tanto tiempo a tratar de descifrarla solo para darte cuenta de que eres completamente cegado por todo lo que hace y su forma de ser y esa forma de que cuando estés con ella se te olvide absolutamente todo lo que estabas pensando y que todo lo que piensas un día después es que realmente a ti te gusta mucho pero no hay razones por las cuales deberías gustarle a ella porque todo el tiempo estuvo hablando y lo que ya habías practicado decir no pudiste decirlo y eso que ibas a decir iba a ser lo que hiciera que se enamorara perdidamente de ti.

y pase tanto tiempo colgado en la idea de que la gente que amaba se alejaba o me empujaba o me controlaba o me tiraba a loco y me decía a mi mismo lo odio lo odio lo odio y diario decía lo odio lo odio lo odio y caminaba por los pasillos viendo, observando y decía, la forma en que ese chico camina la odio la odio la odio y los labios de esa chica los odio los odio los odio y cuando veía hacia arriba y solo veía el gris techo del salón de clases al que me obligo a ir diario y sabía que era todo lo que vería ese día y decía ese techo lo odio lo odio lo odio

y lunes martes miércoles jueves y viernes todo lo que hacía era flotar de un lado a otro automáticamente sin salida ni meta como si todo lo que tuviera que hacer fuera el mínimo para no morir, no reprobar, no decepcionar a mis padres, no descuidar mi aspecto. Y días pasaba viendo el techo de mi habitación, viendo el infinito de posibilidades y lo infinito del universo y el infinito de días que me quedan por vivir y decía…así va a ser

Así va a ser siempre

y ahora camino por los pasillos con paso firme pero alegre y veo hacia enfrente con ojos llenos de curiosidad y checo el celular cada treinta segundos porque tengo miedo de que el último mensaje que te haya enviado sea el que cause que dejes de hablarme por siempre y no puedo evitar pensar que el que me hables es demasiado bueno para ser verdad y sé que suena estúpido pero de alguna manera todo es estúpido y en especial el hecho de que estoy completamente aferrado al sentimiento de satisfacción que me causa ver las palabras “Te quiero” en la pantalla de mi teléfono que antes sólo usaba como pisapapeles o como despertador o para leer cómics, o para checar facebook para chismear a gusto lo que están haciendo los demás porque Sandra me dice que soy un metiche, pero yo digo que sólo soy muy observador.

Y lo que observo es que me gustas mucho.

Realmente me gustas mucho.