Inanimate things also possess personalities.
Inanimate things also possess personalities.
―
Atrona Grizel
History shows
that it is war and hostility that function as engines of “progress.” In the
absence of rivalry, the rapid strides in science and technology that now exist
would not have emerged. Advancement does not arise from altruism, but from
fear—the fear of falling behind, of collapse, of obsolescence.
―
Atrona Grizel
One is born dead.
And when dead, one is born. Birth and death are synonymous.
― Atrona Grizel
Society is a
malignant tumor that a person must surgically remove from themselves in order
to stay alive.
―
Atrona Grizel
I feel trapped in
the world—a creature the size of a bacterium finds an entire planet too small.
―
Atrona Grizel
Nothing and no
one can prove that anything and anyone is existent.
―
Atrona Grizel
Years ago I used
to imagine taking revenge on the web of self-honoring ignorance I had fallen
into by hurling my bookshelf out the window in fury and ridding myself of all
the books inside. After spending years in that web, I have the same fantasy
again, but with one difference: when I imagine lifting and throwing the
bookshelf, there is no added emotion—no anger or despair, at least. Simply the
act.
―
Atrona Grizel
Humans insult and
cheapen this sacred emotion by wasting their rage and fire on things and beings
that do not even deserve it.
―
Atrona Grizel
The mind nurtured
outside itself grows toward society, while the mind nurtured within itself
grows parallel to society. This determines whether a person will walk their own
unique path or follow the same path as their era and civilization. They either
embrace the herd, break away from it after joining, or never belong to it at
all. This shapes the root of their personality, making them either normal or
post-norm. From this point onward, they belong to utterly different worlds that
are mutually exclusive—like a bear in the forest and a fish in the sea.
―
Atrona Grizel
I want a
catastrophe to occur, a war to break out. Simply so that something, anything,
might change. For only such a profound rupture could shatter this endless
routine. Someone reading this might prejudicially say, “Then go to where
there’s war.” But they don’t realize that modern wars have long lost their
artistry. In past centuries, even war had a nobility. They were narrated with
poetry, then turned into myth, and etched in oil paintings. Everything was
sacred and aesthetic. Now? Merely the crude crackle of rifles and the rubble of
concrete. Today’s conflicts are raw data: livestreamed executions, pixelated
drone strikes, anonymous statistics. No poetry to hold them together but just
noise and dust. I wish I had lived during the World Wars; it doesn’t matter
which one. I would love to experience the haunting adventure and the rawness of
human connection forged in those times. I don’t care whether circumstances
would kill me. All I know is this: even if I were to die, I would die in a
state of immense awe. After all, I am, with all of myself, contrary to
peacetime, because I have never known what peace is and I have no interest in
learning. I could have experienced the most illicit and deepest loves in a
prison or in a concentration camp, but I do not believe I could live that kind
of love outside—that is, in this freedom where visible oppression and gloom are
absent—and even if I could, I would not take much pleasure from it. For the
greater the deprivation, the greater the intensity of connection. And the
greater the abundancy, the greater the intensity of alienation. My home is not
home, meaning comfort and happiness; my home is homelessness. That is,
everywhere where crisis rules and every span of time in which there is war.
―
Atrona Grizel
Pain shakes a
person awake. Not suffering is sleepwalking. That is why only sorrowful souls
have glimpsed the true face of things. Society fears them, pities them,
dismisses them—and, perhaps most crucially, pathologizes their feelings with
terms like “anxiety” or “trauma.” Yet in their solitude, they have made
treaties with the void. In their suffering, they have mapped the architecture
of despair. And in their silence, they have discovered a strange kind of
peace—not born of being “cured,” but of being utterly exhausted.
―
Atrona Grizel
It is solitude
that opened my eyes.
―
Atrona Grizel
Since all life
eventually ceases to exist, there is no difference between living and not
living. Life and death are the same thing—just like nothingness itself is
existence, and existence itself is nothingness.
―
Atrona Grizel
Being a pessimist
is not a pessimistic thing.
―
Atrona Grizel
If there is
nothing in a space, then there is surely something there. Because nothingness
means even the absence of absence itself; not the presence of nothingness.
―
Atrona Grizel
Everyone is
transient. I, however, will always be glued to myself.
―
Atrona Grizel
There exists a
culture shared even by those who are dissatisfied with mass culture, and it is
among the most dangerous precisely because it is dazzling—deceptive. It is a culture
that belongs to those who are “dissatisfied with the world as it is.” This
manifests in the following ways: They still carry a certain belief and hope in
humanity. If they suffer, they might dream that their suffering will one day
“be heard by everyone.” Through their works, they may fantasize about becoming
popular. They might romanticize the psychiatric term “trauma.” They might aim
to “fix and recover” things or people. They might set their minds on leaving a
“meaningful impact” and become activists. They might frequently “discuss” on
philosophy forums. They might be aiming at “dark vibes.” They might cling to
mottos like “forever alone.” They might refer to themselves as “just a random
book lover.” They might have interests in “just some random weird stuff.” They
might still be screaming into the void. They might try to “prove their depth”
publicly. They might refer to themselves as “lost souls” to the point of
weariness, even internalizing this very term—coined by the system to reduce by
classifying them—implying a form of domesticated rebellion. And so on. These
supposed outsiders are actually on the inside, worshipping at the altar of
visibility, validation, and vague worldly hope. Their beliefs—“art-as-cure,”
“literature-as-refuge,” “activism-as-purpose”—are not radical to the point of
exile but packaged and predictable. They don’t reject the system; they only ask
to be understood within its boundaries. They say “alone,” but mean “unpopular.”
They say “misunderstood,” but want “a bigger stage.” They ache for belonging,
not freedom. They want validation, not destruction. They weep, but with an eye
to applause. They write, but always with a publisher in mind. They compose, but
just to make money. They mourn, but only to be noticed. They claim detachment,
but still speak as if begging to be liked and heard. They imagine themselves as
“wild,” but only within the categories that subcultures allow. After all, there
are two ends to the ruins: on one end, these kinds of “loners” who are still
tied to conventional wisdom; and on the other, the utterly unknown, mystic,
cosmic, and free spirits who have transcended everything human.
― Atrona Grizel