The Philosophy of Pessimism: A doomer's call

Hovering amid despair, right when I wanted to seek the absolute truth. The reality is a dark place to stroll, once you get dragged by the feeling called Weltzmerz, there is no turning back. To over introspect is both a blessing and a curse enough to associate your sufferings to reality. To exist is to will and to will is to suffer, tormented by the reality I consider myself as a Doomer. 

Ennui is what I feel on a usual basis. No amount of empathy could change the reality that's expanding inside me. My idea of self is just rooted in the despondency, that emanated from the societal melancholia. We feel pain but not painlessness, we feel care but not freedom from care, fear but not security. Pleasure does not yield answers for me, my will to strive does. My will to strive that springs out of melancholia. The reality that oscillates between pain and ennui is put forward to society only for the masses to be ignorant of that. Sometimes, people don't want to know the truth and urge to stay in the illusion, only to make it their reality.

 Our desires are our fallacies, that's insatiable. It grows as an ignorant form in us but soon overrules us, only for us to quench that thirst. We become our desires in no time, we feel stronger than before but the reality inside us got hindered and imprisoned by misery. I have no escape from Weltschmerz, the more I try to detach, the more I am at war with myself. I am enslaved to misery and I am not willing to live anymore, just exist. Pain can't stab me anymore, I partake in it. The feeling of nothingness resides, and the feeling of fulfillment resides too but when these two become one, I am born. I carve my own meaning of reality through misery. Pleasure exists but in relative to misery but only misery, for me, could help me gain my inner consciousness.

 Self-loathing on my primitive nature that's engulfed in impulsiveness, that has mocked me all this while. I have been deceived by my own idea of self. Toxic consciousness made a fool out of me and I have never regretted this more. But, I feel a void inside of me that no amount of pleasure or happiness could fill. The void has overtaken me and made me immune to an illusion, I seem to exist in. Maybe not, maybe I have created a bubble of reality that evolved from my thoughts of misery. Misery is my answer to my absolute truth. My purpose all this while was to get an answer out of the melancholia that existed within myself. 

My philosophy is the philosophy of despair and not of pathos. Even if I could bring compassion, pity, and love, I wouldn't be able to feel it. What's throbbing inside is just a mere machine and my senses are just instruments for me. My pursuit of happiness is melancholia. My purpose in life is all vain for me if I'm strangled in my senses. A life beyond what's ours is where I exist, being restrained of everything you own. My choice is not to escape but partake to make it my own. What my instincts compel me to do is what I am. I am in anguish, but it's nothing you could feel because I am in acceptance with misery. 

Waking up to die within, it's not an easy task for the fate to hit you with desolation. Loneliness is addictive, I preach. The closer I get to sorrows of my own, the more I am in acceptance, I feel a peace within. Not something that you could understand, because you are biased toward happiness and I am biased to the opposite. We seek two contrasting needs and we strive hard to achieve it only to make it our own. We are the same yet different.