#journal

86 messages · Page 1 of 1 (latest)

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Going through random thoughts ultimately it follows a stream of consciousness.

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Listening to "Invisibleman by Ralph Ellison"

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The audio version is really good the voice actor went all out

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5 stars im eight hours in.

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i left my home town for foreign I'm back now on a paid vacation the road and houses look dilapidated, its smaller than expected I thought it been my glass frames making everything look compact and outlined, there was less space on the road the front yard of homes cluttered with items of the vacated or dead. I met an old play-mate i hadn't recognize them they had a flushed beard, i said "you've grown" and he replied back the same remark to me. I regret coming here the image of what i'd made of the place is broken I'm in my room reluctant to go outside and confront someone who maybe disappointed.

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Though i was rereading a segment from sartre theory of emotions and this part was juicy

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"for his behaviour is addressed to a fictional world"

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This was very juicy text

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Ingenuine emotions.

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Tbh i like introspective writing

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much less work than those fiction writers

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.

limber cloud
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Hey this is really cool! I have black night mode on my phone though and it's really hard for me to read white background.

What's the book primarily about?

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Tbh

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If you are into phenomenology or psychology i wouldnt really recommended this book

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Its a bit outdated

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Why i like it is because sartre to me mastered writing so reading it is just to improve my writing skills and my own pleasure.cmonbruh

limber cloud
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thanks!

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# limber cloud thanks!

I won't leave you empty handed so here : Emotional Experiences
Ethical and Social Significance
Edited by John J. Drummond
and Sonja Rinofner-Kreidl

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A wonderful book on psychology and phenomenology, though the writing is very academic and can be difficult at times to understand.

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.

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,

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Don't know what to write.

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rereading this long artical on pain

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and pleasure

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want to finish it in 2 hours

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Make me feel good

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I got nervous when they said " dialectical"

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Zizek traumatized me

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With over complicated words 😭

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To be real with you

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I did not know pain could have anything to do with "rationality"

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Nor motivation

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the gustatory cum olfactory cum tactile experience of tasting the strawberry—

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What in the hub

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This is a mouth full Smile

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The last part makes it all make sense

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😭 finger_no - you don't get to say "so call"

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How in 14 pages there going to over all states of pain

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"Unpleasures" is a new one sounds like a word that doesn't exist.

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In this they say its a broader term for pain

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"often claimed" questioning the two neural pathways theory is cray cray

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I do often get the feeling im wrong

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but because the information is presented in a certain way..im immediately convinced.

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The author needs to try there best to convince me on this one.

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Another big word "hedomotive" i guess it just means the second level in the nueral pathway theory.

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And "motivational force" is an intresting use of words. i likely

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I often find people think it's easy to take advantage of me, but even i would mistreat me im trusting things which would not trust me.

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I listened to the other

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but they neighbor replied with actions of distrust a ram goat posture

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to climb its pulpit

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swiveled my head was looking for the other, i did what i was suppose to but still

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The neighbor had treated me as the one who had misheard. I hadn't. If there was anything I knew, it was never to embarrass myself. My anxiety spikes in moments of space, recalling and rehashing the situation. I had heard the other well. The neighbor's confrontation of my so-called deafness made me begin doubting what I heard. I'd redirect my eyes to the surrounding people, wondering if they'd been on my side. They were sterile strangers in the background. This was enough to create a moment of metamorphosism; their structure had an undercurrent- juror's pulling me in, asking me to plead my case.

I was more and more still; his casual posture towards the other, their in-aggression was in a passive manner. From the assured person, I stood in the gaze of hostile strangers, the comment from the neighbor being the gavel that confirmed my fate: I'd embarrass myself. During the moment of scare, I can imagine, they looked onto another sterile individual such as themselves, but I'd been the lone stranger in the room. I said, "No... I think she'd said I should wait to collect the change." He replied, "You sure? 'Cause I heard different." in a west Indian tone.

I stood silent, raising my thumbs to affirm my own views. I quickly looked over to my mother again and again, hoping she'd come over and shame this man for what he'd done to me. Hadn't he had the EQ to realize that I no longer wanted to continue the back and forth? That he had one thing to do, "What else?" I'd ask myself. He'd been instructed, and I surely didn't have to repeat myself. The eyes of the people around me should see my way of seeing. "They'd already forgotten" is a saying that often floats around my head when I overthink; my law professor said this after I flopped in a mock trial.

The strangers hadn't seen my way of sight; they'd simply forgotten as if I weren't there. But surely, surely! - how i'd know they became the basis of how i would react i don't know it how they'd read only i- their minds were buzzing with inaccessible information. Their synapses, moral judgments, were in overdrive. "Shy nor silent people are polite," another saying that keeps going in about my right ear and subsequently the left, obsoleting; I kept forgetting this when I was in the background of an incident, unable to say a word. The thoughts they had would manifest no change in their unchanged posture.

Imagine a ball aimed and struck, hitting you straight on, in the face. There'd be a moment of pause, of dissonance. My silence had made the atmosphere awkward. It was only after getting out of that daze that I said, "No, the change was meant for me." I smirked, and in my own hysteria, recreated a scene whereby I'd so own him in an epic fashion. As phantasmic as the thought is, it gave reason for my smirk. The altercation ended; he'd thrown the change, a ten-dollar bill. He'd given no receipt. I left for my own sake, but as I'd taken the money and sat down, the con man scammed me out of the extra five I should have gotten.

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but 2 hours passed and im still only at the first page

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😭

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Drawing anatomy again

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its a bit hard trying to get back into the groove of that, i forgot how much time i spent on one figure.

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I just do introspecting and self-study to revitalize hope, but after nine years of no birthday guests, you get to understanding your situation the most: nothing will change; there's no hope! Moments of scare are being seen in public by past schoolmates. What would they think of me? I say this as if I weren't the invisible one, that somehow their temperament would be one of disappointment directed at me for my failings in life. It's a funny thought; just imagine a bus, them standing in front of an empty seat, their face twisting and twining in a gape. I was jealous; I so wished the second "i" - my ideal self - inside my head would jump out, taking my place. If only this would happen, then I would make a friend, even just a single one. I envied people who had friends, and I shied away from social events, whereby not having one would leave you by yourself - out of place. My anxiety, accompanied by my underdeveloped social skills, would be a superpower in a backwards world.

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my mental been on the down low

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The person in my fantasy.

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I became so fixated on someone that I ended up injuring my frenulum. The faster I tried to move forward, the more my palm cramped up. Despite my efforts, I can't remember their face—it's like thinking of a feeling from a book but not being able to identify the story. I spent weeks scrolling through Facebook, struggling to recall their name; I thought it contained a "y" or an "i," but it actually had an "a." The last photo I saw of them was on a tablet, which also held childhood pictures. I started to forget what I looked like from ages 5 to 13, as I had no photos in this new country. Someone took that part of my past away, along with their image. I fell into an obsession; I stopped loving them as they morphed into a fantasy, representing the ideal I sought in others. My fixation grew so intense that I neglected everything else. I longed for their return, but deep down, I realized I was a troubled, self-centered person harming others, craving complete control over someone who had faded from my thoughts. I wanted to dismember them to parts i'd like the most spread them across the table make the fantasy fill in the undesirable. they liked me for my personality me herefore a personality governed by an ego-ideal .

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||I think about killing myself. It's now a background thought of an epiphanic cataclysm deduced to intuit behavior- ‘Oh, it’s all over now. I don’t really want to think about it’ and ‘It just sort
of happened. I can’t really think why I did it; something must have come over me’. I'm scared to assimilate; hadn't my dysfunctional life brought about anything but normalcy? Omnipresent, lacking spiritual immortality - guilt-anxiety-death - anxiety . Angsty, they'll see the fragment, persona, image that I hadn't seen. The man in the mirror is no more distorted than the mirror. They'll take the mirror frame, make it a new and come to fix me to a real mode of being. Keep them away; they'll turn off the light, they control the electricity, they know who I am, they sit outside the walls, pliers to cut the light switch wires, they want me dead, keep them away. Stare long enough and they'll see what you saw: illusions seeming so real they scared you; humanness manifested in a mirror. The sterile stranger was never the reflection but you. The man in the mirror is dead; who's to remember the formless phantom unable to take shape in the mirror. Refractment of light onto who's to witness my form, unless to spy my shadow in the sun and descant on mine own deformity. Objet petit a, phantasmic, invisible, deprived of light unbridged by a terminator. A world of light alone - no more than a mortal in hell surrounded by blazing lights - he's dead, lost of form.||

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I dreamed I was in a store (Royal pharmacy) I hadn’t visited in years, searching for a birthday gift for my mother, where I had once bought her a Mother’s Day gift. At the front counter, I saw someone from my past now turn fantasy ; their features were strikingly clear. I approached them and said, “You’re the most beautiful person.” They were surprised, not by my compliment, but because they recognized me. I felt happy to see their face, especially since it had faded from my memory. However, when I woke up, I realized I could no longer remember their face clearly; it kept changing and becoming unclear. While I recall the dream, I don’t remember the person. Deep down, I know the face I saw wasn’t really theirs but a creation of my imagination while I was dreaming. Their recognition of me, even for a moment, made me feel more present; they accepted my appearance, which often makes me feel ashamed. In that moment, my self-hate disappeared; their gaze saw what I wish everyone could see when they look at me.

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Had another dream

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Wrote it down but it was explicate so I'm hesitant to post it.

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I finally get it why

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I could never seriously take it

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I finally get it

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Im not happy to say out-loud but how real am i

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I submitted an assignment to a course I gave up later on, but the assignment had gotten a seventy percent. How much of that percent is indicative of good? A one hundred is a deviation, a large deviation from the average. No rewards, failed classes—scraping by—an unpresentable physical self. A materialist, by what deviation am I from an absolute failure? For forward momentum, luck is discarded its significance reduced treated a sham and effort is attributed to accomplishments you are supposedly entitled to. This is the building blocks for continued progression. In the title, "accomplishment awarded metal," there is something not fully authentic when luck is not regarded. In this seventy percent grading, how true is it to the actions and the effort? It's a farce that I have a problem even saying this feels like a lie. I'm trying to attribute a quality I lack. A special property, a deviation above, that I had never been awarded. I realize my hypocrisy as I'm a materialist. Seventy percent of anything living from head to toe can't be real. The real in my materialism is bias. A hole in any part of the body, neck down, is different a hole in the head. My problems, my introversion, and bed rotting are symptoms of a seventy percent depression. Again, my unpresentable body with a seventy percent personality. I, a simple being of matter, wish to grow into a seventy percent complex organism, but yet left to question what it means to be seventy percent and what each percentage deduces about me

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"Limbs coordinated by heated air; the fantasy I had as I watched the performers in my school dance—the dancers supported and comforted by the hot air re—realized over an over their existence, heated, hyper in movement. As I sat there, I imagined shimmering waves of warmth guiding each gesture, each leap, each twirl. The air wasn't just hot; it was alive, pulsing with rhythm, wrapping around the dancers like an invisible partner.

In my mind's eye, I saw tendrils of heat lifting arms, propelling legs, arching backs in graceful curves. It was as if the dancers were suspended in a living, breathing medium that anticipated their every move. The hot air whispered secrets of perfect timing, of flawless execution, into their ears. Their bodies responded, not just dancing to the music, but to the very essence of heat and motion itself.

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The performance transcended mere movement; it became a symbiosis of flesh and air, of tangible and intangible. Sweat glistened on skin, not from exertion, but as a visible manifestation of the air's passionate embrace. Each dancer moved with an otherworldly grace, their bodies extensions of the heated atmosphere, their movements as natural and inevitable as the rise of heat itself. I stiffened with an enclosed posture, sat immobile in the background.

And yet, as I watched this spectacle of heat-guided perfection, I remained apart. The hot air that so lovingly cradled the dancers seemed to create a barrier, a shimmering wall of heat that separated me from their world of fluid grace and effortless beauty. I sat there in the audience row, shivering, my bottom jaw clattering against the upper, a cold observer of this warmth.

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. My life had been no different from the architectural arrangement of my "home" . I'd been underground, my living quarters the basement. Above were well-dressed kids with a roof over their heads, front doors that Halloween trick-or-treaters visited. I, in the under-ground, had no guests to invite, no trick-or-treaters to come to my basement door. My bed was in the kitchen, yet the odd sight elicited no stares from the children of the landlord above even though i was keen to the foot steps coming down i'd position my face in just the angle to show my looks i was anxious too . I was invisible, alone, too frightened to imagine having friends, let alone imagine the nightmarish thought of house guests who wouldn't laugh at my basement apartment,
the 'lower level ' symbolism mirrored me. myself the ground and upper floors my ego ideals fantasy . A single window allowed natural light to shine in my lower level, I'd see parties and children's ankles as they ran by my window. Nevertheless, I fashioned my actions as if they saw me, my back against the wall. I

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didn't want them to see the stranger look up at them. Coming home from school would be a game of hide-and-seek. I'd slow down my pace, make my schoolmates walk in front until they were out of sight, and then and only then would I be able to enter from the basement door. No Halloween, no friends, alone, and above me were people I wished to be.

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On the bus , disconnected from that scenario from two years-ago , I sat alone; the air gushed off the passing man onto me, who'd looked for a seat farther back than mine, awakening me, like a fast-moving car driving past a parked one, but still, this passing by vibrates the immobile one. In these lone hermits, geniuses isolated in their own difference, the hermit might enjoy solitude; nonetheless, the social organism sends stress signals to them, demanding friends. The genius's difference reasons more about the ending of their own lives than any motivation. In my own distress, in my own milieu, I find myself grasping at straws. I can't retain the faces, nor recall them in a steady structure, forced to understand that what I do retain in this broken state are faces unrecognizable to someone if the fantasy I have of them were to materialize into a picture and be given to this distant person.