There is something intelligent about an animal that only considers it’s next meal and contemplates when and where it might next sleep. The irony is that that intelligence wouldn’t be recognised as such if it wasn’t for a species such as us to be stupid enough to consider all of this in the first place.
I am the ghost in between these walls
I write and write
I writhe and writhe
I cry and cry
I scream, I scream
I shout, I shout
I have an entire ocean of
I feel so much
The earth could crack under the weight of my feet
From the pendulum that is my heart
Swinging to defeat
I’m the invisible man
Everyone has another
I shall cachinnate at the hopes of bedlam being resolved. What flumadiddle I’ve been taught of peace and virtue!
I wouldn’t wish the human condition upon my worst enemy, but alas I have it and so do they.
So my enemy, in the end, is the same.
And that is what hurts the most.
I remember as a teenager standing on the top of a grassy hill, In the woods out the back of my parents house. I went there with friends and I went there alone. You could see the train tracks and watch steam trains on a Sunday. I remember this land being there before my eyes, and old couples that walked past would comment on the beauty. “What beauty?” I always thought silently. Because as the steam trains rattled past, and the birds chirped their way to sexy time, and the worms dug their way in the soil and pooped out nutrients after eating up the autumn and winter debris, nothing, absaloutely nothing could quench my lack of thirst for life.
And now? Now I wish I never saved myself. I wish I didn’t go to hospital for treatment. I wish on that fateful night that my self harming got found out that I didn’t say a word about feeling unwell, that I remained tight lipped. I simply wish I let go, that I never tasted water and found thirst. The raw pain persists, and when I think I’ve purged it all out it comes back or something new just as intense, or more intense comes along and punches me in the stomach. Thirst or no thirst the pain persists. If I could turn back time, I’d kill myself long before I had a glimpse of hope. Hope and I don’t get along, I know she’s a lie and yet I try to keep in some sort of relationship with her. No matter how distant we seem to get.
Its time I let hope go. We can’t work. I don’t like her friend chance, I’m too much of a coward.
I have a theory, though I must add it’s not a scientific one. But through observation of people, I’ve come to the conclusion that delusion is a fundamental part of the human psyche.
I believe that a small amount of delusion is needed for human functioning, that delusions are indeed survival mechanisms.
A person either has just enough delusion to function and get them through their lives, or his or her delusions take over and prevent functioning. But there is a third type of person, a person who lacks the ability to believe in a delusion, a person who notices almost every contradiction meaning they couldn’t believe if they tried. Their lives become what can only be verbally and in writing expressed as a living hell. It’s a subset of depression. It’s severe sanity.
Sanity to the extremes in a human mind is dangerous. Because with such extreme sanity, your head will be played with, with a constant barrage of contradictions that others seemingly don’t notice. It means you also see that there is no grander meaning to life; you see it for what it is. Because life is everything yet everything in the scheme of things means nothing. There is no grander purpose. We have a biological drive to help us in the here and now and nearer future, but we see that even the here and now don’t really amount to anything with meaning. That the only way meaning can exist is for us to create a meaning, but to create that meaning you need to be able to function like a human being who doesn’t suffer from severe sanity. You need a delusion. A positive delusion. And where can a severely sane person require a delusion, once they’re aware that everything humans believe to keep themselves going, to give them meaning is a delusion?
I don’t know. Where can we go, with all our fucks? We have no delusions to pack them into.
And if you think I don’t notice the contradiction of posting a post on a blog for others to read, as if somehow you can help a person like me, or as if my writing means anything I am fully aware while writing this, that this post doesn’t even matter. And that to even write it is stupidity in the face of what i have just said. But thats just another reason it hurts to be me. Because all these repetive days that go on, i carry on all the while knowing the only logical answer.
I disturb me. I’m tired of life and death, I’m tired of me. I’m tired of other people and their baggage, their emotions, their problems, their excuses. I’m tired of what I go through not being worthy of the pain I feel. It makes me feel pathetic, I hate when I see someone with genuine suffering and all I can think is “I have all this pain inside, and my reasons aren’t worthy of the pain I feel. My pain is not worthy yet I feel it because I’m pathetic” I feel like a clown with those endless handkerchiefs, I have endless pain. A deep harrowing hole that can’t be emptied, that can’t be fulfilled. It can’t be either because it’s nothing and it’s everything.
What I really want to do is, cut myself off from the world, allow myself to mourn life and take a painless exit.