Nonexistence

That Chaos—Nature, God and gods, Demons, and perfection and imperfection. The death that gave life to existence. Inexistence , in terms of reality, is the culmination of being the silence of this chaos. Simply enjoying your own world, understanding your own time and moments of connecting to worlds outside yours and how you can't control these worlds (nor be the artists of these worlds), being something that always gets in the way of everyone (but always defending your own innocence and dignity), and being something that can be aware of its own weaknesses and simply allow everyone to exist and talk to you about their problems and their lives (remembering that you shouldn't solve certain problems for others, but rather help), and simply speaking to them without expecting something "real" to be lived. Life is the realism of a masterpiece, artistically speaking, not philosophically, where even the most stupid or simple detail transforms an entire space into something incr...

     Life and death are the same, in some way. The same in that they are ephemeral and not "sides" or eccentrically "real" things. Neither of them needs to think about having a body (whether a body "described" as ugly or beautiful) or any kind of choice that involves "one side" all the time. They don't need to be anything, and this applies to your life, which is always questioning you about who you are, whether you're worthy, whether you're a monster or something perfect or great, and that's so annoying that it even loses the point of complaining about it sometimes; it just becomes horrible. The world is somewhere between horrible things and "extremely" beautiful things, and that's it. Life becomes stupid. It doesn't escape your suffering or the suffering of the world in general. There are appropriate times to deal with issues beyond your control. Facing reality without defenses is like shouting at a wall, witho...

  Reality is neither certain nor mathematically correct. Human reality has been shaped by the expectation of perfection and failure , of insignificance . But even those with the greatest status and the greatest physical and athletic achievements cannot achieve self-satisfaction . Life's sphinx makes them question whether they are truly beautiful and worthy enough to exist in this vast world. Yet, they have yet to find meaning in their lives. Life sometimes will lose sense, this is normal, but perfection is an ungrateful muse that turns you into a maniac with your own mistakes and failures, a being who will never find the ecstasy of perfection, and therefore, the meaning of perfection . Humans are a bizarre beauty , as is the mystery of life . But not designed to perfection, especially for creatures that already fail with perfection in the beginning, thinking that perfection is the only sense to our existence.

It's pretty hard to think about reality without losing the line, without missing the point, or reaching a point that still lacks a definitive answer. Reality is an art, a mystery you carry, and then you grace it with what you "reach" and not with what you don't understand or can't even "know." Otherwise, you'll end up in some level of insignificance or simply lost, left with a certain fear you can't even explain. Life is an ephemeral and infinite sphinx . A cannibalistic art that devours its own flesh to create its own universe, and here is a possible demonstration that you are still part of this great art and not a butler of some god or condemned to this screwed-up yet bizarrely beautiful and mysterious reality. This sphinx will sometimes ask you if you are real or if life is the only "right" thing, while you are the poison that runs through your blood. Everyone firmly believes there is reality, but what is reality for an existence i...