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Rambling

I was reading Thich Nhat Hanh this morning because Christianity never worked for me, and I can’t grasp the essence of Hinduism.

I was reading his exposition of the four noble truths and the eightfold path. I was reading him because the positive existentialism of Viktor Frankl only gave me momentary catharsis, and nihilism is something I so desperately want to escape from.

So, the four noble truths involve acknowledging your suffering; delving deeper into the cause of your anguish; knowing there’s a way to eliminating your grief and transforming it into joy using the eightfold path.

I seem to go up to stage three and regress each time I try. I guess there’s beauty in being fucking miserable because happiness is an overrated product in this society of greed, hate, and materialism.

I mean, look around you. Everything is transient and purpose is ephemeral. And don’t lecture me about the truth when all we do is breathe, eat, drink, smoke, work, fuck, shit and die. Maybe I sound like an adult Holden Caulfield, but I stopped giving a damn a while ago.

My friends, there are no Edenesque getaways with trees of life, and even if you were to find one, you’d find a cherub with a flaming sword embodying the wrath of Yahweh guarding it.

So here you are, stuck in a surreal actuality that epitomises the clichéd The truth is stranger than fiction, idiom. Here you are, where everyone turns on you, or you turn on everyone else.

I could write pages and pages about the women I’ve slept with, giving them an allure, making them my muses or whatever, using sonnets (both Petrarchan and Shakespearean), but there will never come a time for those recollections.

I’ve measured out my life in coffee spoons, and yeah, I’m a postmodern Prufrock, riddled with angst, sexual tension, and never finding solace in anything.

So, I guess I’m just going to write about cigarettes since I’m the fatalist who’s an insipid Bukowski; selling his rhymes for free; addicted to his misery, and wallowing in his self-pity and depravity.

I’m smoking Marlboro Reds, by the way. Don’t you just love smoking? I mean, the rush, the release and the satisfaction are better than sex.

So, here’s to a life without meaning. Can I get an Amen?

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