Meditation diaries: Where I bring doom and gloom and hint to a question no one wants to ask or answer.

Through reading the book I was recently reading and mentioned in a previous post, I’ve also started to come across other authors/people who see themselves as ‘recovering environmentalists.’

What that appears to mean is that they’ve seen the cracks in the environmentalist movement and seen that the flaws in it are too big to continue on that road.

A lot of the flaws they point out, I have long felt uneasy about myself.

For example, there is a tendency to talk about technology as something that can become our saviour.

The idea is that we can use technology for positive purposes, we can make more ‘environmentally friendly’ technology etc.

‘recovering environmentalists’ see this as a kind of like another religion.

Instead of believing in heaven or some superior being saving us from ourselves, believing that technology can save us instead.

The idea that technology can save us has always created mixed feelings for me.

On the one hand I really, really, emotionally, want to believe it to be true.

But on the other hand, a less emotionally driven part of me can see the massive flaw in the idea.

How exactly do people expect we can utilise technology in a sustainable way when the very things that create those technologies are part of the problem? Not to mention the energy that is then needed to keep that technology up and running.

The world is a closed-off system. We can only utilise what the world has within it.

We end up ‘utilising’ more than our fair share.

Environmentalists often also suffer from the human, nature separation delusion.

We as humans can save the planet, somehow. According to them.

The language used helps the illusion of separation from nature.
As pointed out on a site I found the other day, the very fact we have the word ‘nature’ shows the delusion that nature is something separate from us.  Scroll to II THE SEVERED HAND

The sentence “lets get back to nature” is the epitome of that delusion.

It’s pretty clear why emotionally I would want to side with the environmentalists and believe that technology could save us.

How could it not be wrought with emotion?

As I’ve pointed out previously I’m alive from that technology.

But as someone else in a comment section of a youtube video pointed out so is most of the western world now.

But I can’t help feel I rely on it more. Surgery, powerchairs…

Some ‘recovering environmentalists’ have the ability to live a life that shows their recognition of what modern technology is doing.

And some say that is the only way to go because even though not many people are currently following their trend, there will be a catalyst that is coming and we will see a massive change.

Maybe I’ll be long dead before that moment.

But I can’t help feeling like it’s just another thing that will inevitably leave me behind.

Because while we can’t possibly remain sustainable using technology the way we do, and future depictions in science fiction of further advanced gizmos and gadgets or how we save ourselves by utilising resources on other planets are science fiction and probably always will be…. Where does that leave people like me?

This is one of those unanswered question.

Because the answer is dark and no one wants to acknowledge it.

Chapter 4: Dragonfish

I closed the lounge door and Greg, my social worker, breathes in as he takes in his surroundings, no doubt noticing the emptiness. He opens his notepad, and as if cued on what to say next asks, “Have you thought any more about socialising?”
“I socialise enough.”
“I see,” He plays with his ID badge that dangles from a ribbon around his neck, “when?”
“At work,” I reply directly
“Is there anyone in particular at work that you get on with?”
I shrug my shoulders, “I guess so.”
“And what would you say to meeting up outside of work, or even to go to see a film once you’ve both finished a shift?”
“I don’t know.”
We sit with an awkward silence between us; he shifts his eyes around the lounge taking it all in again, “So are you refurnishing? Or,” he shrugs holding the palm of his hands out openly in question, “are you taking on a rigorous minimalist lifestyle?” He smiles.
I take a look around my lounge as if the aesthetic is new to me too, “I’m not sure yet.”
“I see.” He fingers his ID badge again.
He looks at me seriously, places his notepad on his knee, “I see,” He repeats and scribbles something quickly, “How do you feel,” He takes a pause and looks at his notepad for a moment as if carefully reading some detail that is new to him. “How would you feel,” He starts again, “If we brought your appointment with Dr Aaron forwards?”
My knee-jerk reaction is to spit out my question, I stop myself and pause for a moment to make it sound and look as casual as possible, “Why?”
“I just think,” He places his pen above his lip and holds it there like a moustache while he thinks, “I just think,” He repeats as he starts again, “That we should review you earlier than previously discussed.”
“It’s up to you,” I reply under the pretence of not being bothered

 

 

There is a big bulky tattooed skinhead type pacing up and down from the entrance and back to the receptionist’s desk. The receptionists sit behind a transparent protective barrier. A brown haired woman has sat in a chair three seats away from me to my right, wearing a puffy jacket and is watching the skinhead intensely. A woman with her ID dangling around her neck arrives, and the big guy stops pacing, and they face one another. “David.” She starts sternly.
“They’re five minutes late,” David complains, frowning.
You can tell he’s the type of person that gives his social worker trouble and that she has to be able and willing to dish stern words out if needed. With her ‘no excuse’ voice switched on, “Just sit down, David.”
“They’re five minutes late.” He repeats like a petulant child, stamping his feet on the spot.
“David, we’ve had this discussion before. Haven’t we?” His social worker asks.David’s nostrils flare, and he looks down at his trainers, his shoelaces have come undone.
“Come on, sit down, David.” His social worker repeats, glancing over at the nervous woman in her puffy coat and then at me with a smile that is meant to reassure us.
The skinhead turns around and screens us, looking us all up and down before turning back to his social worker, “No.” He starts pacing again.
His social worker sits down one seat away from mine and acts like she’s had enough with him now, that she’s ignoring him until he finishes his childish tantrum.
David stops and looks at her sitting down quite comfortably, his social worker raises her wrist and looks at her watch then looks through the glass window at the receptionist, smiles and nods. The receptionist presses a button at the desk, and her voice comes out clear from behind the glass, “The doctor won’t be long now.” She pushes the switch back, and the waiting room falls to silence. David shuffles up and down till he lets out a big sigh, “I’m leaving.” He says with a dismissive wave of his hand.
His social worker is in no rush to chase after him; she looks back at the receptionist, they each give a knowing smile that appears to be code for, ‘Well, we expected this. That’s David for you.’
I feel a surge of anger towards this stranger David; I want to punch him right bang in his eye and kick him in the nuts. But it’s only because I wish I had the guts to just storm out of here too. His social worker casually strolls out of the waiting room nodding goodbye to the receptionist.
“Jacob Gilbert.” An Asian man’s voice calls out.
I start to get up from my seat slowly, and as if he sees the question on my face he tells me, “Greg is already here.”
I follow the doctor to his room. Greg is sat waiting with one leg over the other, his notepad resting on his thigh. “Hey, J.J.”
“Hello.” I sit down next to my social worker and the doctor sits in front of us, his legs apart his bulge all too clear to see. It’s not that I spend time looking purposely in that direction; he’s just dressed in such a way it’s hard to miss or else he’s fucking massive. But that’s not anything I want to consider for very long.
“So how are you, Jacob?” He looks at my notes then back at me, “Or would you prefer I call you J.J?”
I shrug my shoulders. I’m not bothered.
He looks across at Greg and smiles. “I’ll just follow Greg’s lead and call you J.J, then.”
We sit in awkward silence for a moment.
The doctor writes something then looks back at me, “how are you doing since we last met?”
“Okay.”
The doctor smiles again, “It appears Greg may be disagreeing with that.” He puts a fist under his chin as if posing like The Thinker statue.
Greg scans his notepad and then says, “he’s sold or gotten rid of most of his possessions.”
“Have you?” The doctor turns to me, wanting me to confirm.
“Yes,” I admit sheepishly.
“And why is that?” He asks, his interest in me suddenly intensified.
“I have plans.”
The doctor leans forwards in his chair, his legs now less far apart sparing us the bulge. “What kind of plans?”
I think it over a minute, trying not to think it over for too long, “You know,” I look to a stain on the carpet, “Just saving up for better things.”
“You sold your possessions to save money?”
“Yes.” I try not to let my inner scowl show on my face. What is so hard to believe about that?
“For anything in particular?” He leans back in his chair again, “Surely you’ve still got your guitar, though?”
Greg shakes his head, “He’s got rid of that too.”
The doctor leans forward again, “Really?” He looks at Greg as he asks this, then looks back towards me, “What do you want to buy with all this money?”
“A better guitar.” I lie.
“I see.” The doctor writes more notes. “Do you know what type of guitar?
“A Les Paul Gibson probably.” I shrug.
The doctor sucks in some air through his teeth, writes some more notes down.
“Seems a bit much to sell all your other possessions for a guitar,” he pauses and writes something quickly, “even if it is a Gibson guitar.”
“I don’t make that much working at the cinemas.”
“Have you ever considered making it a goal to get a better-paid job?”
“I don’t want a better-paid job.”
“But you want enough money to buy a Gibson.”
“Yes, but why work for so many stupid hours to get paid more to buy a Gibson guitar you’ll never have time to play anyway?”
Dr Aaron clicks his pen and looks between Greg and I, rolls his tongue over his teeth, “So sell all your possessions instead?”
“It’s not like I have sold everything.”
“Yes, he still has a laptop.” Greg butts in.
“A laptop and?” Dr Aaron asks
“Nothing else that I could see.”
“What about the necessities?”
“I have a fridge. I still buy food.”
The doctor sits back and opens his legs wide again, his hands closed together as if praying under his chin, “I see. Very minimalist of you.”
“Yes,” I agree.
“I just worry about the reasons for your new minimalist lifestyle.”
I don’t know where the voice inside my head comes from but I find myself talking about minimalism in more detail than I’d realised I’d even thought of, “I decided that I want quality things not a quantity of useless tat. That I’d rather have a shitty paid job that allows me my own time, and have to sell previous items of interest to afford something of quality.”
The doctor nods his head and seems to be buying it.
“That is a rather profound thing to realise in your life.”

“Profound thing to realise.” His voice repeats in my head over and over.

Meditation Diaries: My brain hurts and other rambling

I’m not to feed the birds…

My brain hurts.

Everything else is a disappointment.

I started reading a book called the “The way home: Tales from a life without technology.” by author Mark Boyle.

There is some irony to me reading that book on a kindle isn’t there?

I’m enjoying it and hating it at the same time.

He’s one of those “We need to get back to nature types,” and I always find myself somewhat cringing at that idea of getting back to nature.

Because nothing can exist without nature.

The idea that ‘man-made’ things are not natural has always bugged me.

What does that say about man? That man isn’t natural? So what is man? Supernatural?

But even ‘super’ natural has the word natural in it.

So are humans supernatural?

A strange phrase really, ‘supernatural’ isn’t it?

We say supernatural to mean something not natural, don’t we usually? Something ‘beyond’. Yet the word super suggests something is MORE natural not less natural or beyond the realms of nature.

I was looking up some birding humour the other day and I came across an article that was trying to say how “bird watching,” and “Birding” are different. I wasn’t interested in what they say is different or not about it. But what did catch my eye was this “Birds are natural; birders aren’t.”

Everything a human does we deem not natural.

So I ask, what exactly do people think humans are?

Is it a mass delusion of grandeur or is it an odd sense of self-hatred?

Obviously, the truth is it’s a bit of both, because some people in the population of humans certainly have delusions of grandeur about their place on this earth as a species, and then you have the others that hate humans and hate what humans are doing to the planet.

Anyway back to the book I’m reading it’s a somewhat painful read for me.

He’s done something I could only ever wish I could.

You don’t live this long with my medical conditions without technology, for one reason only: I’ve been kept alive by machines while they operated on me.

It’s not just the electrical technology stuff.

I don’t have it in me mentally, I’m not tough enough to do what he calls ‘get back to nature’ as much as I pick at that phrase.

It’s like reading a reminder of all the things that I have to some degree aspired to be, maybe not as extreme as he is. But certainly the idea of living in a cabin in the woods, pissing up against the trees in the morning while the birds sing and squark the morning away.

Yea that’d be my thing.

I don’t think I’d completely discard technology. I do after all use a powerchair, and I wouldn’t get fart without it. Then again right now I get nowhere because it’s broken.

After feeling dejected by everything I started searching for ways technology can be used to help the environment.  Only really to reassure myself that technology isn’t as evil as the writer makes it out to be.

But when he talks about the machines that come along to knock down a whole load of trees and essentially driving animals out of their habitats it’s hard to argue that humans and our technology aren’t bad.

To some that is enough to argue that we’re ‘not natural’ but it’s not really a good argument for that because nature is as destructive as it is creative. The fact humans do some bad things doesn’t argue against the idea we’re natural at all.

But people will use that fallacy all the time.

If we don’t like something about humans we will say it’s unnatural and that we need to get back to nature.

Sadly that mirror you’re looking in that you’re trying to change to look ‘natural’ was natural all along.

yes, that means our destructive force can’t be singled out as something not natural.

Sometimes the more I find myself involved with environmentalism the more I find myself feeling we’re just chasing our tails.

I get to wondering that maybe we’re too self-aware for our own good. But then a little voice niggles in my head and says, “It’s an illusion of self awareness.” And I think that voice may have a point.

We think we’re self-aware.

To me the very fact people seem to separate us off as another category away from nature suggests we have no idea.

Sometimes I get the feeling that we’re aware that there is something we should be aware of but that we can’t quite put our finger on it.

Or maybe it’s just me. I often find myself aware of being aware of something I can’t quite put my finger on.

Chapter 2: Dragonfish

Part 1 

Part 2

 

“Gilly,” Samantha asks me at the ticket checkout, “do you still play the guitar?” I’ve known Sam since primary school,
“no,” I reply numbly.
Sam sighs as if feeling defeated, her cleavage resting on the edge of the countertop, “Aww,” she moans, “I was hoping…” She stops short and looks at me; her eyebrows raised, “Wait, why did you stop playing the guitar?”
I shrug my shoulders
She tilts her head, “But why?” She’s nothing if not insistent.
“Because…” I let the word roll on my tongue as I move the mouse tiredly on the mat and click another cell in a spreadsheet, “reasons.”
“Should I be worried?” She bites her bottom lip.
“No.”
“Are you okay Gilly?”
I yawn from boredom at the spreadsheet glaring at me, “Yea.”
“Tired?” she giggles.
“Bored.”
Some customers make their way over to the confectionary counter, and Sam runs across to be of assistance.
The Beatles were right you know. We’re all living in a yellow submarine, well the majority of people are. I look over to Sam and imagine us swimming away from the submarine holding hands. I’m already out of the submarine; I fell out. Sometimes I look through the little round windows, and sometimes you look back at us from inside and some of you sneer some of you smile that sympathetic, pity smile, but most people just look through us. Sometimes I think maybe you’re all sad too, confined and claustrophobic in there. It seems everyone drowns in the end. After the customers have got their chocolate, popcorn and fizzy drinks they saunter on over to me, the tickets guy. I’m the guy that changes their life with a ticket to a new perspective for a couple of hours. The fact we’ve only had these five customers is why I take the evening shift.

A ribbon of steam curls under his nose, the froth from his cappuccino staining his upper lip. Plates and cups clatter behind us with the gush of the coffee machines. The lights above our heads have a monotonous hum, and one strip of fluorescence light near the entrance keeps flickering. My social worker pours another sugar into his cappuccino. “How are you doing?”
I shrug my shoulders, my staple response. I watch as a woman walks in with an empty pram, pushing it with one hand while holding the baby in the other, the baby’s head is on her shoulder, and he or she flails her arms about and wails loudly.
“How is it going at the cinemas?”
“I’m changing lives evening by evening!”
“Sorry, I can’t hear you?” He leans over the table to hear me better.
”I’m changing lives evening by evening,” I repeat trying to raise my voice over all the noise.
”Oh,” I’m unsure if he’s heard me. His NHS Identification badge that tells you he’s a social worker with ‘Shademore NHS services’ with his name ‘Gregory Davies’ dangles down a ribbon around his neck, with a picture of him looking a bit young with a bit more hair.
“How’s the guitar going?”
“I dunno,” I gulp down some of my orange juice.
“Are you keeping to your practising schedule?”
I shake my head
“Is there any particular reason why?”
“Don’t have my guitar anymore.”
He looks at me questioningly, “Sorry,” he winces a little at the sound of the baby crying right behind him now.
”I don’t have my guitar anymore,” I repeat.
“why? what did you do with it?”
“Sold it.”
He takes a sip of his cappuccino, “Why did you sell it?” He asks, his voice rising with surprise.
“Just felt like it.”
He puts the cup down gently on the saucer, “I’ve known you long enough to know you don’t do things on a whim.” He looks at me sceptically, “you usually have reasons, a plan.”
“My plan was to make money from it.”
“I see. For anything in particular? A new guitar perhaps?”
“Maybe.”
“Hmm,” He wipes the froth from his upper lip, “It seems odd if you ask me.”
“What can I say, I’m a weird guy.”
We sit in silence amongst all the noise; the baby has since stopped crying.
“Any negative thoughts and feelings?”
“Since I last saw you?” I ask, as a way to be evasive. “Isn’t that like asking if I’ve taken a breath since?”
A little smile creeps his face, “Any I should know about?”
“Not any out of the ordinary, for me anyway.”
“So yes you’ve had the usual negative thoughts, but anything more serious?” He looks at me, expecting an answer like the previous one he quickly utters, “You know what type of thoughts I’m speaking of.” He gives me a pointed look.
I consider how to answer this one because If I appear too confident, he’d know I’m lying, but I can’t tell him the whole truth either. “I’ve had, you know, thoughts.”
He knows what I mean. “And have you wanted to act on them?”
“I’ve wanted to..”
“Do you have any plans?”
“No. It’s just a passing thought and feeling.” I lie.
“So no plans?” He asks again as if not quite hearing me.
“No, no plans. Just thoughts and feelings.” I lie again.
“What stops you acting on those thoughts and feelings?”
“Fear.” There is some truth to that, “The idea of those it’d hurt.” I lie.
I don’t believe in the long run the particular actions in question would hurt anyone. To the contrary, it would bring relief to a lot of people. But I learnt that this is the response they want. “You know what people like me lack?” I ask him.
“What?” he peers over his cup curiously.
“We lack a fundamental part of the functioning human’s psyche,”
“And what is that?”
“Delusion. Illusion. Whatever you wanna call it.”
“How so?” he puts his empty cup down with a little clink.
“See to function a human needs delusion. It’s like what that writer Albert Camus said about suicide being the most rational answer.”
“I see.” He tilts his head, the light flickering behind him at the entrance.
“If you go too high on the scale with delusion you get the mental illness label, if you never even get on the scale you also get diagnosed with mental illness! My problem is, I see that life is meaningless and I have no illusions to put a veil over it. It’s just there, bleak as it is staring at me.”
“What if your delusion is thinking you’re not deluded?” He chuckles, “A common delusion,” he winks, “I find.”
“But objectively speaking there is no purpose. I’m rational in an irrational world. It’s perfectly rational to be depressed in this world, to see that life is meaningless.”
“But if life itself is so irrational, then why bother spending time being so rational?”
“Rationality or lack of it isn’t a choice.” I gulp down the last drops of my orange juice, “Plus, without any rationality, we wouldn’t be where we are today.”
My social worker tilts his head to one side, “But according to your theory rationality is, in fact, an illness.”
“No. Too much rationality without delusion is an illness. You need an illusion to drive the rationality you do have into something that can be used to thrive. You take away a delusion that propels that rationality then you have no wheels to spin the thriving.”
“So delusion is like the wind to a windmill?” He picks up his empty cup and looks down at the emptiness then puts it down again.
“Yes. Or water to a watermill.” I squish the bottle in my fist.
“Interesting.” He rests his chin on his hand.
“And that’s the problem with trying to treat people like me.”
“I gather you’re feeling hopeless.”
“I guess,” I shrug my shoulders, “I mean I suppose I feel that way but I also know that feeling is bullshit because hopelessness necessitates that hope exists somewhere or did exist at some point.”
“You’re a very deep thinker, I think to your own detriment.”
“Detriment to what?”
“Objectively to your survival, to your own thriving.”
“What happens once a person has seen how an illusion works? You can no longer see past the fact it’s an illusion! So any treatment is simply about installing illusions and some mild delusions of worthiness, meaningfulness. But what if you can’t unsee the truth that it’s all just lies we have built into our psyche purely for survival?”

Meditation diaries: Not the man I want to be

Like rats teeth, the feeling of being overwhelmed gnaws at me.

It’s a subtle sense of overwhelming.

Where I daren’t say aloud the things that are making me feel that way.

Because they are surface things. They are stupid.

One of them is a pretty narcissistic thing, something to do with my looks. I’m not one to obsess that much about how I look. Ask anyone and they’ll tell you I often go out with my hair still messy. But there are a few things, niggling things I have a complex about.

The other thing, well I guess the fact I saw a rat in the garden for the second time today is on my mind.

I keep having conversations in my head with support workers and managers and the manager says to me, “Matt, you need to stop feeding the birds.”

And I…

This is how pathetic I am. I guess.

I had always wondered why I often found it so painful, so odd a feeling, so stressful to some of the smallest of changes.

I guess now I have the autism diagnosis it makes sense.

The idea I might have to stop feeding the birds makes my brain feel fried. It’s a hard feeling to describe. But it hurts.

Not to mention that my key interest in life is… yea, you guessed it…Birds!

To an obsessive degree.

Do you know what I spend the majority of my time doing when in my flat? Talking to my budgie and looking out the window watching the birds feed at my feeders.

Do you know what I do when I notice the feeder is empty? I clean it and then refill it.

And do you know the action of cleaning it, then leaving it to dry makes me a bit angsty?

It does.

I always wish I wasn’t this way.

I’ve always wanted to be one of those men that exudes competency with a really calming, laid back appeal to me.

But my brain doesn’t allow it to happen. It’s not wired that way or something. I don’t know.

I’m the kind of person that watches western movies wishing I could be like clint Eastwood silent characters or like Shane from the book Shane written by Jack Schaefer.

Read books about how to be more ‘stoic’ etc.

But inside my head, it’s too painful to be that man.

It’s funny in a depressing way because I’ve searched about autism and stoicism together, trying to find ways to group the two together. To find ways to make stoicism a way of coping with being autistic.

And I’ve found a few posts on Reddit and one or two on facebook where people claim that as autistic people stoicism seems to come naturally to them.

Yet I can’t figure out how they’ve found it to be so compatible. Given the anxiety that often comes with autism, the tendency to meltdowns etc.

I can see how visually I may seem like a person who it would be compatible with. I don’t have as many expressions on my face as others, I can say very little and seem relaxed. But often inside I’m the exact opposite.

But eventually, that silence cracks and I become overwhelmed and show my hand for what it is.

Often broken.

Stressed.

Meditation diaries: In which I just ramble and call it meditation diaries only because it was a ‘series’ I started…

Often life feels like you have this constant ‘thing’ chasing you. Be it the Depression, the anxiety the overwhelmingness that seems to come simply from having Autism. I don’t want to call it a black dog, that’s just…insulting to black dogs. Quite frankly if I did have a black dog following me I’d probably be pretty happy with the black dog (unless it was an aggressive dog following me to attack me of course).

Not sure why people use that black dog metaphor, especially when we supposedly love dogs so much. Why would you call Depression or anything else like it ‘the black dog that follows me’? Seems a rather strange one to me. Perhaps it should be clarified that it’s a rabid black dog. In which case that would certainly be depressing because that dog is really fucking ill and will need to be put down.

And dying dogs are a very depressing idea.

I went to a cardiac clinic today to check on my heart. I was overdue my heart check-up anyway but the reason I went today was that I have been having palpitations.

And the truth is the older I get the more aware I’m becoming of the fact my heart condition isn’t ‘cured’ and never will be. Not that I ever thought it would be cured, but the point is the older I get the more the risks of further complications with my heart go up a notch.

And that’s from a heart that was already very much at risk as a child.

It’s gotten to the point where I’m either thankful I haven’t started having heart failure yet, and thus actually appreciating life.

But then there are the other moments when it’s all I can think about, “Shit, my heart is gonna fail, my heart is gonna fail! It’s going to fucking fail!”

And then to conflict that I have the depression that sometimes tells me, “You’re better off dead anyway,” but then that ends up being quite relaxing because then I just sort of start relaxing into this state of mind where “Welp, my heart might start to fail, but whatever. Who cares.”

I know ultimately that my life expectancy is shorter than average.

Some people use that sort of fact to their advantage. They use it as a means to appreciate every day more because their life really is short!

But I struggle with that.

Because the world is often so overwhelming to me. I always feel like a sort of fish out of water trying to navigate through life and social interactions.

This isn’t really a woe is me post. It looks it though.

I mean what I am trying to say is that I do appreciate some aspects a lot more the more I come to the realisation I’m at least maybe early middle age in terms of my heart condition and life expectancy? I mean I could be totally wrong. I could defy the statistics. And last longer than expected

Or

I could die tonight. I could die tomorrow. Or next week or whenever.

And yea sure it can help put things into perspective.

Like when some arsehole screams at you for no reason that makes sense and you’re thinking, “You fucking prick,” you take a breath and you think “Well, what’s the use arguing. We’re all gonna be dead one day anyway. So why argue with a person who won’t even listen to a word you say anyway?”

But I find another part of me, the part of me that is like a terrier with a bone, he wants to grip that bone and he wants to never let it fucking go.

As with all terriers, he’s fucking cute.

But he’s also an angry cunt who barks. Too fiercely.

Currently, I appreciate Jays (birds) and yea, all other birds actually. And dogs. I love dogs. And did I tell you I love Jays?

But I’ve also got some things bugging me.

Too much is changing at once. The local council are changing things. Support is changing. Nothing feels in its place and it feels like my brain is being electrocuted. My life doesn’t feel in it’s place.

And that screaming prick. And others response to it all. “Just ignore him,” Well thats all well and good but I ignore the person 90% of the time. I’m not a fucking brick.

But what really, really, really grinds my fucking gears…

All the responsibility is being put on my shoulders to ignore them. What about putting some responsibility at his door?

I sound like a sibling who’s younger brother or sister gets away with everything, don’t I?

*sighs*

I try to set out to be the image of myself I have inside my head. And I’m always falling short of it.

I’m not a duck either. I can’t let things just let it go like water off a ducks back. What kind of oil would I use to make that ‘water’ go off my back? I don’t have a preen gland that produces oil to make it just drip right off me.

Which is partly why I fall short of my ideal self because I wish to be a duck. If only to have a corkscrew shaped penis.

Goodbye – lyrics

In the storm
I gather myself
Pull my heart
And these strings
They call my veins
Like barbed wire
Around my throat
I black out again

I know there is nothing
Wait-ing
On the other side
I’ve seen it
The darkness
Thats never ending

No lighthouse
No life jacket
Just the waves and I
Take these strings
They call my veins
Like barbed wire
Wrapping around my throat
I black out again

I’m a monster
Deep inside
But you’re ugly
Just like me
So come with me
And step inside
The eye of the storm

Let it take us
Just you and I
Take these strings
They call our veins
Like barbed wire
Around our throats
Blacking out again

And I only wish
I could have said it sooner
Goodbye

I wish I could’ve said it sooner
Goodbye

And my heart
Is thrashing in the ocean
And my lungs
Are filled with too much emotion
I’m barely even breathing

I wish I could have said it sooner
Goodbye

*Note I can’t write music, can’t sing. If anyone wants to try putting it to music give it a try, and let me know about it.

*another Note. Yes the lyrics about veins and strings is inspired by the song Bleed from Cold  “Take all these strings They call my veins Wrap them around Every fucking thing”