2011 Manuscripts: November 1

November Sometimethe

Location: Cognitive Labyrinthe

A Necessary RockanAHard Place: What goes Down Must Come

I’ve got so much to say, to one two type, binary babblings, who knows whats coming from my finger pecked mind. I kinda hate life right now, just the bursts of it I feel in my gut that aint quite a gut right now, feelin low functioinal. Low functioning, fluctuating. I think of my life in comparion, like comparing paintings and I simultaneously appreciate and despise my lifestyle. I was bout to say my blessings but really its all about perception. I engage in activities that we deem luxury and high living and its all perception. I LIVE IN AN ALIENATED SOCIETY THAT DISTRUSTS ITSELF IN TOTALITY. Our “standard” of living is deemed the best in the world, and this is false. False false false it is not tea time, never will be he-re. Our specialization has been at great cost. This society I have grown up in is crumbling, person by person, crumb by crumb, crack in the ice. I see it every where I go, especially when in crowds or completely alone. Im either sensory overloaded or sensory overloaded, unless Im tired then I am practically drunk.

Why am I found so attractive. Inga says she can spot a self-actualized person from a mile away. Am I soon to be actualizee? Interesante. I don’t know, and I don’t care right now. Its all about scrambling, in flux. Entropy, I want to appease me, I want a change in reality, a change in society, a change in me. I’m hanging in cruxed balance, between warm wood and cold nails a’peircin. I devalue my experiences, and I shouldn’t. Or should i? and look at it under a different lens, change the fishing for love for the fishing for self. Self love, so easy to say or sputter or type or utter, but not to do. A daily process. One day at a time. Its true man , woman, distinct-ians, martians. I want to go to space one day. I could if I wanted to. Itd be fascinating, if I so choose it to be. My perception is so fragile I feel, so innocent and recently clay-smeared upon a red rock wall. I’m a young orb, a young energy. My time is so few and so limitless, I’ve been here for an eternity and not at all. And yet this society only sees juxtaposed colors and I see a spectrum, starkness only comes in realization, not perception, and I can see beauty serenity and malicious callousness all in one glance of an eyeball, all in the back of your head, my head, the cats head. I can see so much simultaneously that my mind chews on for long burps of time before I understand, before I hit the Starkness. Crispy realization, bon. I feel out of my element, my lungs have been drying since I was 17 I think, drying out my element. I need mar. the sea. Marthesea. Marthesea. I need artistic inclinations and idiotic foolish aspirations and meaningless sex as art and meaningless art as sex, and all the meaning of those two combined. I need silence and yet I fear it. Even this clicking of white keyed devils, staring at me in mirrors of paris, set me off in a way where my discomfort cant truly touch me, not yet. One day I will fully slide in to my crazy, and all these energies around me will mute into salt and peppered teevee screens.

I like this stream, floating up it, thrashing down it. Navigating, im learnin, and I begin to trust myself, and distrust the world around me less. Dark times, darker than ive seen, is an omen of ominousness. Ready set grow. I see death and killing, and a lot of concrete growing, how doth the green riseth from grey? Good question bad question just a neutral suggestion. I don’t quite accumulate it all, I just ;let it loose and do so frivoulously and with cunning, not fastidious in my perfectionist way. And I wonder if people can see my insecurities and I wonder all the time if I am just like everybody else: convinced I am special, convinced the condition of bagged flesh doesn’t wrap me. It does, it doesn’t. maybe in actuality it does, but if my perception paints me, if, then I am not in the condition. I am a cerebral entity. Here by mistake. To watch and die in silence, or in the loudest sonic boom, or both at once. Why do I search for fulfillment at the end of rosy red lips and fine check bones, wide canals of smiles and breasts for the horizons? Why? Why do I seek the beauty which I myself could be, incarnate, and yet could never be? Why do all being both attract and repulse me, and why do I fear to be lonely? And yet crave loneliness. And yet crave ugliness and dirtiness and utter depravity and the like, the faint. Why do I want to smash my head between my could-be lovers car door and steel vee-hicle, slice my skin with sickles of laughs, of frustrating hesitates, my mind fights fate, my mind fights all. And I lose to it continuosly, for most of the awake time, and only in thee deepsest hours, when all is dark and frothy black, like cold syrups from bleeding willows, I come alive. More alive than if my brain were bursting its brim, attacking the sky. More than if my body dies, and mind kept onward. More when I am in a lull, a swift lull where all makes true and sense is achieved, where I am most natural and therefore most everything, greatness omnipresence, no seeping doubt or barraging egomania, no hair cutting of tight jean dressing, no girl-i-croon-for-you or shut the fuck up slobbering dickwad, none of that. Just sunny, just a Viracocha like lull, a quiet existence, a humming that is broken in perfection. When I am asleep, or in my farthest escape.

Life is so easy and it is so hard.

My reality makes little sense.

I am told I am lucky but do not feel it.

I feel to escape.

Escape what?

I feel dark times.

I feel my destiny is coming to nibble my ass

Then bite a chunk out

Hopefully of my head, not my butt.

I want to learn to mind-quiet.

I think either this society will have to go, or I will have to go.

I am okay with dying, whenever.

I am okay with dieing, whenever.

I am content with sensation.

I am content with my own stimulation, and yet am needy.

So needy.

So wanting of someone to affirm it is permissible for my existence.

I feel guilty.

For my breath upon this earth, when it has too many breaths already.  

For my rearing in a society built upon shame and guilt.

For a devience of love, from everyone by everyone, almost.

I feel guilty.

But that means nothing.

For even the smallest waxing of milky hope appears on both sky and earth, in reflections.

I am so thankful to be able to REFLECT.

I am so thankful to be a reflector.

And yet, it terrifies me.

Sometimes.