EDIT: The opening post is my pre-enlightenment experience.
Welcome to my thread, ladies and gentlemen, and… get out.
No, sirs and madams, in all seriousness, if you have low tolerance for strong-egotism and overly self-conscious explores, I would advice you to, by all mean, stay away from this thread as far as possible. For it is going to be full of me as I am full of myself. For you are going to read the book that is me; and you may not gather enough interest in me and my absurd philosophical problems to take the time you spend reading this book as something more than a waste of time, if not an intoxicated waste of time.
The topics of the writings in this thread can be anything, from the pettiest matters to the greatest issues of mankind. The quality standard I aim to is nothing less than perfection. I take responsibility for my works and welcome all kind of criticism, but understand that I am in no way begging for any sort of attention, recognition, approval or pity from anyone, and therefore would not try to please anyone's personal taste.
So, good sirs, why would I chose to expose a part of my inner world (the more superficial part, I would say) in a public thread, you ask? Because I, as previously claimed, is quite an egoist who rarely stops thinking, especially thinking about himself. And those thoughts, which I consider rather vital for my personal mental growth, would die off if they are not in some way written out. Due to their highly abstract and vague nature, I find it hard to observe them mindfully and express them clearly if I don't write with the aim to make it readable and understanble to someone other than myself. I could never find anyone of my social circles in whom I could confide those thoughts, not because of my shyness and lack of interactions, but rather because of the level of complexity (and tediousness, if you will) of the matters I am concerned about, which would require serious investment and certain special areas of knowledge. Writing in the Internet, especially in a personal thread, gives me the feeling that I am speaking to everyone and at the same time, no one; which is quite comfortable and convenient. And, rather than bothering and annoying people in various threads of various topics in these forums with my absurdly lengthy rambles, or flooding the Facebook's New Feed of my friends with boring and random philosophical statements, I choose to throw them all in this one thread, in which I will study me, as you do. And for one more time I would warn, what you get from this thread may just be pure poisons, so if you have no favor for my cocky and tedious manner, please find something else worthier to spend your precious time.
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For various reasons, I tend to think of myself as the most honest man, and at the same time, the most deceitful man of my generation. Honest, because I can always face the kinds of self-conscious notions most people would avoid thinking about. Deceitful, because despite the previously mentioned ability, I too often deceive others, and myself, in various subtle levels. This shows not a lack of courage, I believe, but rather the unstability of mind. I deceive others without even knowing it, as I was also deceiving myself and believing in every last bit of my life. I can trick myself into liking or hating someone and change my image like a mirror. If even I myself am not sure whether I am being serious or not, how can you? If you are to judge me, then my brethrens, believe not in my words, but look at my deeds, as the ancient wisdom would teach you. Why do I lie, my brethrens? Because of fear, or for the sheer joy of lying? I am a mind-gambler, not a mind-gamer, therefore I lie for the tension and anxiety I get from my lies.
Ironically enough, the greatest concern of my life has always been one thing: Truth, or more specific, Ultimate Reality. It is my ambition to find Truth, and yet this very ambition is the one thing that prevents me from finding it, the Ultimate Reality that cannot be comprehended by logical or scientific means, and cannot be approached with desire. I can say that, and can somewhat confirm what the mystics have been saying, because I have, in deed, had vague experiences of this so-called Ultimate Reality. People call me a determined man, and here I detest both my determination and lack of determination. For without determination, nothing is possible, and yet with determination, Truth is not within reach. I see it that my determination has long buried my deepest inner voice and my poetic essence, for my poetic essence cannot be determined in any definte direction, as aimless as existence itself, and as solitary as a trash-bag lying at some corner in the street after the rain. But it is free. No, it thirst for freedom like a drowned man thirst for air.
The ship is sinking! Hurry! Hurry! The house is on fire. Hurry! Hurry! Truth awaits nobody. You search your own heart and wait for it to come. Is determinism truth? Is one simply a prisoner of fate? Is man but a slave of his conditions, his actions no more than inevitable results of the network of causes and effects, his thought just a definite process of particles and waves working in strict accordance of certain physic law? To find truth is to see whether I am a puppet that can see the strings, or a puppet that can cut the strings and move on its own. Truth brings Love and Freedom, so is the meaning of my chosen name: Liberty Sea.
"Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” - John 8:2
Ambition is all there is to my suffering. That is all there is to human suffering. And I am extraordinarily ambitious. I harbor and at the same time try to suppress this absurd impulse that is eager to best everyone at everything, when their talents are exposed to my eyes. This troubled me greatly, and rob me of that innocent enjoyment I so much want to capture. When was the last time I can admire a great work of art without comparing it to my own work? When was the last time I can forget myself in the beauty of art? I can't recall.
I am overly prideful, and even if I lacked the self-awareness to recognize myself as such, there would still be too many people ready to inform me of that characteristic for me to ignore it. If anyone finds himself wise enough to advice me, I would first be pissed, then I would silence this disturbance in my mind to listen to the criticism, because I am for progress even more. My pride is a fruit of my ego, my longing for progress is a bigger fruit of my ego. There are few people who could advice me without pissing me off first, and they are all women. I am softer toward women, not because I am biased or discriminating, but because these women are more ready to be sensitive and understanding.
However prideful my impulses tend to be, I put the sake of my progress at greatest priority. And for its sake, I trampled on the images of all idols I have worshiped, and even the images of those who are dear to me. I was always in need of an absolute to guide my way in life. Be it Karl Marx, or Ho Chi Minh, or Einstein, or the Buddha, or Nietzsche, or Krishnamurti. They are important pillars that built my mind, and once I have entered the temple, I must destroy the temple and overcome their influences. I can always, say, picture myself holding a sword slaying the people I loved, respected and idolized. It is said, "Meet the Buddha, Kill the Buddha. Meet your parents, Kill your parents". That is the only way to let the words of dead men bear fruit. "Verily, verily, I say unto you, except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone: but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit."
Self-consciousness is the seed of human illness. The love that is born from self-consciousness is not real love. To truly love is to forget oneself. Any other appearance of love, no matter how poetic and heroic, is simply playing with the ego, to aim for some sort of self-approval.
The feeling I have toward my family, the family that gave birth to me, raised me, is not love. It is gratitude. Gratitude is a matter of mutual interest. It is not universal love. My family never understood me, and they never show serious attempt to. From childhood to adulthood, I live in the solitude of not being understood. Nobody ever came even close to my heart. Not even the girl I so loved. You, Mr. and Miss strangers, are simply looking at the surface of the abyss that is my heart. I am being clear and transparent, like the purest water in the purest lake, but its bottom you see not.
Whether you find me witty and humorous or not, I don't find myself having inborn talent to be a comedian. Only he who is sure of himself can be humorous. I can rarely be sure of myself. To laugh in ignorance is something I am not very fond of. For a man who is unaware of truth to ridicule and mock someone else is unsightly. Playfulness is a privilege of the enlightened, Humor is a privilege of the mature. Maturity means the end of growth. My growth and my evolution has not seen its end. If one is ripe, one is rotting.
Some times we would joke about life, about how bitter it is, how absurd it is, to avoid facing it, to lessen the pain it caused to us. It is temporary relief, which prevents us from seeing the root of suffering, then we will suffer again and again. If I laugh, then I laugh. If I cry, then I cry. I don't laugh to wear off my sadness. I don't smile to hide my tear. I face my life with an attitude that is nether optimistic nor pessimistic, but simply with a glistening curiosity, eager to understand, rationally or otherwise. I am not entertainer material. I am a questioner who goes on questioning everything and can yet to stop questioning.
I am laughing.
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