when Mitski said nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody ooh nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody nobody no body no bo dy no bo dy no
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why everyone's trying to look smart and intelligent? can't we just be dummies together? Like the more you try to seem intellectual the more you look silly
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Today's nap... or whatever that was... has left me deeply unsettled. It wasn't a dream, not in the conventional sense. It was more like a recurring audio hallucination: me, endlessly chanting 'Marco' into the psychic ether, with absolutely no reciprocal 'Polo' forthcoming.
The weirdness isn't just the lack of participation; it's the implication. What does it mean that my subconscious, that swirling vortex of repressed desires and half-digested memories, refuses to engage in such a basic, fundamental act of call and response? Am I, at some deeply subconscious level, fundamentally unconnectable?
Perhaps the 'Polo' I'm seeking isn't an external entity, but an internal state – a missing piece of myself that I can only access by repeatedly, and futilely, shouting into the void. Maybe the whole point isn't to find Polo, but to become Polo, to embody the echoing response that the universe so stubbornly refuses to provide.
Or maybe, just maybe, it's a sign that I need to lay off the cheese before bed. But honestly, the existential terror seems like a more plausible explanation... And im thinking abt accepting sleep after 1,209,600 seconds or smth
The weirdness isn't just the lack of participation; it's the implication. What does it mean that my subconscious, that swirling vortex of repressed desires and half-digested memories, refuses to engage in such a basic, fundamental act of call and response? Am I, at some deeply subconscious level, fundamentally unconnectable?
Perhaps the 'Polo' I'm seeking isn't an external entity, but an internal state – a missing piece of myself that I can only access by repeatedly, and futilely, shouting into the void. Maybe the whole point isn't to find Polo, but to become Polo, to embody the echoing response that the universe so stubbornly refuses to provide.
Or maybe, just maybe, it's a sign that I need to lay off the cheese before bed. But honestly, the existential terror seems like a more plausible explanation... And im thinking abt accepting sleep after 1,209,600 seconds or smth
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when do i get to that point in my life where i'm not constantly thinking "i'm running out of time"
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When a question has no correct answer, there is only one honest response.
The gray area between yes and no.
Silence.
The gray area between yes and no.
Silence.
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Any studies become enjoyable when there’s no academic validation involved, but nooooo
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when life gets impossibly difficult, we play dead. Not just metaphorically, mind you. I'm talking full-on, Oscar-worthy performance art. We cease all activity, adopt a vacant stare, and maybe even develop a slight rigor mortis-like stiffness. The goal? To convince life – that capricious, often cruel mistress – that we're no longer worth bothering with.
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Polkadot
backing my pack. packing my back. pegging.
You should start the journey into yourself first
Universe, we need to have a serious conversation. I know I usually operate on a 'whatever happens, happens' basis, and I try to embrace the chaos, but just this once, could you maybe, possibly, please, for the love of all that is holy, cut me a break? I'm not asking for a six-pack abs overnight. I'm just saying, maybe, just maybe, could this one thing go my way? You know, the one I've been stressing about for a year?(half a decade mfffff!?)- the one that's keeping me up at night and making me question my entire existence? Just this once, could you throw me a bone? I promise I'll be good… for like, a week. Maybe two. Okay, fine, I'll try to be good. Please?
I've been giving this some serious thought, and I've come to a rather unsettling conclusion: If I die, everybody's dying with me. Now, before you call the authorities or stage an intervention, hear me out.
I'm not talking about some kind of global suicide pact or a vengeful curse. I'm talking about a fundamental shift in reality. Think about it: everything you experience, everything you perceive, is filtered through my consciousness. My senses are your senses. My thoughts are your thoughts (well, you're thinking about my thoughts right now, anyway). So, when I cease to exist, what happens to your reality?
Poof. Gone. All of it. The sunsets, the symphonies, the taste of chocolate cake… all just figments of my imagination, now extinguished forever. You're welcome for the chocolate cake, by the way.
It's a rather terrifying thought, isn't it? The realization that your entire existence hinges on the continued functioning of my brain. I wield a power I never asked for, a responsibility that frankly, I'm not sure I'm qualified to handle.
I'm not talking about some kind of global suicide pact or a vengeful curse. I'm talking about a fundamental shift in reality. Think about it: everything you experience, everything you perceive, is filtered through my consciousness. My senses are your senses. My thoughts are your thoughts (well, you're thinking about my thoughts right now, anyway). So, when I cease to exist, what happens to your reality?
Poof. Gone. All of it. The sunsets, the symphonies, the taste of chocolate cake… all just figments of my imagination, now extinguished forever. You're welcome for the chocolate cake, by the way.
It's a rather terrifying thought, isn't it? The realization that your entire existence hinges on the continued functioning of my brain. I wield a power I never asked for, a responsibility that frankly, I'm not sure I'm qualified to handle.
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You're drifting off, close to that blissful oblivion, when suddenly Descartes' famous phrase echoes in your mind: "Cogito, ergo sum." I think, therefore I am. But what if you stop thinking? Does your existence cease to be? Do you need to maintain constant awareness to validate your reality? Sleep, then, becomes a terrifying plunge into non-existence, a temporary annihilation of the self.
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