/bs/ - backstory

This nostalgy… a perverse emotion, that of a red autumn leaves or a spring trickle. A many a guy had been defeated by her comforting graces, for when she embraces she holds with arms that have heaven in hands… the hands of Goddess of life itself keeps the grip on our hearts like a vociferous beast with gentleness of a pure maiden

What is the old village if not history or the inception of one's life? The account of all the nescessary steps for existing as an individual, from the cradle to the out of it, all the things we come to remember in our reckoning. Something that is old and good, that serves well the purpose, that fails to do unright, that is what this sublime, teethering saddness, that is too easy to dismiss as frivolous and too difficult to challenge

That I will have as my adversary. This feeling I will have as mortal enemy for that it does me more harm than good, makes me remember things of the great time and forget the moment, this moment in which I purported to live a life that is at least not half so bad. And yet, in this moment of nostalgia, I forget it all, my emotional memory gets wiped clean and gets replaced with the imaginary fictions of some approximations of how it mustve felt so good back then when something was… as if it is right now something wasnt

I shall fight this nostalgia with any means available to me. I will spare no breath, to drown this feeling in the water I will not hesitate, for that everyone will be a fierce beast when faced with unprovoked infringements, superflous attacks of the past on the present, dillution of life as it is. There is nothing good in this feeling, there is nothing good in what it does

From this old village it has the beginning. To reminiscence of the village itself, to be contained in it, to never look outside the old house. To stand by the windowsill and wonder if the life ever moves forward, claiming in airquotes that everyting is still on the outside. When sun changes the moon and vice versa, it is not that the natural states of things changed, it is that I in my perception, in my receiving of the sensory data, can tell, what was before and after, or, the state of things as they are in the current moment. Destroying history at the spot and allowing the nostalgy to exist in its unabashed, unapologetic form. The thesis is thus, it is not that our physical self doesnt change, it is that this change matters little, as the real change is hidden, somewhere we cannot apparently see, something secret and mystical

The change that happens in itself, that has no agent, that just happens. That is the vehicle of nostalgia: annihilation, desolation of space before it, then putting a transmuted meaning in place. The devouring fiction with intention on continuing forever, pure artificality, completely deranged syndrome of madman in a daze, in a dream of infinite pleasure and after which comes melancholy. Why must people live a life? That would be the question, but thats a misguided effort, considering that the change is in itself and has no intention. The change is for change itself, it has no directionality or purpose, it exist in its own interiority. Not people change but the interioriy of them, and the exteriority never changes for that even if it is, the changes are so dimished compared to the spiritual transfigurations that the outside doesnt even matter at all

Is it really the case? It is not. If our interiority matters so much then why must our expressions of interiority must be poor? For example, if the body is the exterior then should it be receiving more effort than anything, because interior is unprovable, it is not explicable by nature, we must attest to the importance of our interior by furnishing the exterior with emotionality and significance. Then interior cannot exist without the exterior, in fact, it is the exterior which gives the interior life. Without the exterior interiority does not exist, it is only by the exterior someting can be hidden, like a tree which shadows objects from the sun

Perhaps there is no externality or internality, maybe our physicality is the life. Maybe the meaning is hidden inside the skin, that there is no other trick or valut to hide under. Perhaps, our life is the expression of us in the moment, that it is a statement on our existence, the undeniable right to being

This will be my weapon, a deadly spear that I will throw at the heart of the nostalgia. I know its weak points, with a steady hand it can be defeated with a single blow… but it disarms me in my most vulnerable moment, the moment of the thrust of truth. It defeats me without a weapon, by laying down its hands and surrender. Nostalgia knows that I have no guts to follow on my intentions, for the risks of losing it forever is one emotion. Would be my life better without it? The vice speaks in unconspicious ways, It beckons closer the sinner to do the sin again, and again, and again… regressing into infinite pleasure again, the plasure of dreaming and imagining

In my dream it was all different. It was reality more real, perhaps, there is no alternative to the dream that Im having. In it, everything is better, the crooks had been fixed and all the unstraights been straightened neat and tidy. In it, my theory, my justice for the injustice. And all I have in my dream is madness of violence as the current injustice is not resolvable, all what could be done is violent demolition of order to be replaced with the order that I would like better. And in this violence my dream completes its purpose, in giving me pleasure in this imagining without solution to any injustice at all

All what follows is profound sadness. Nostalgia has won and annihilated me and replaced me with someone unlike me, with someone who is unknown to own self. Someone who dreams of being the better me