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Indefensible Whining Bullshit; Enjoy
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Seemingly the worst aspects of my inner reality have taken over my waking life. It's not good. I'm distrustful and envious; I'm angry most of the time, and numb the rest. I try to see positive opportunities in the future, but resentments and the past are all that appear in my mind. My body traps me, physically; it's fairly damn well broken - I'm a little bit crippled, have numerous allergies and intractable pain - but this is nearly inconsequential, now. My mind wants for less every day. What I catch myself hoping for now is that my resistance to death will vanish, as my appreciation for life is doing.
Perhaps paradoxically, it seems that this is all due to my psyche's overmastering love of beauty and my soul's deep sensitivity. Hooray. My devotion has been injurious to its object. Repeat.
The things about myself that have been good in the past have become suppressed. Maybe some of them are dying; I don't know. I don't want much more than a few more fits of spiritually violent revenge on a few loved ones left to feel each day. I am a husk around pain. It's a pretty shitty way to exist. I am told I am the master of this suffering - all the more reason, if so, though I don't believe such bullshit - not really. I wish that I could - I wish I was that stupid and selfish, to be able to believe that human beings choose to suffer on some astral plane, that humans beings can will pain away by realizing that they are good people inside, and so forth. It's just that I don't; it's just that there is no evidence for this, no way for evil people to capitalize on it in order to derive profit. I feel that were the religions based in any true fact, we'd've figured out a way to exploit that fact by now, for gain, other than by the mere mechanism of lying about it to the credulous and taking their money. Technically, any lie can accomplish that.
I still have the need to produce various kinds of communication; I still indulge in attracting attention, but, more and more, it is to seize upon and poison the audience I gather, to infect them with but never to relieve myself of venom. Obviously, this won't be sustainable. It could be argued my earlier performance artworks were like this as well, but there is a debate there, whereas now there is no credible debate, no validation or justification for the venom; there was a case to make when there was beauty being created. I don't see that, now. I see only the pathetic swill and hot mucus of suffering. What a fucking bore!
Help me. A field I'm resting in only as a short pause between big efforts on a ... what?.. a puppet, a costume, a larger-than-life Utan that I'm making for the same love that causes imaginary loved ones to cavort delicately in the grasses, merrily silent and carefully tiptoeing in improvised dance as I look over and smile, and wind blows, which makes a cloud throw bands of shadow down upon us, and chills the air, sways the grasses, darkens the light, so that I know what I have written here is a dream, not a memory, begging you to take this up with me, to give me a way or travel back in time and make room for me in the van. I swear to you that if we can do this I will never be angry again. That's probably a lie, but right now it is supremely and universally True.
I suppose I meant to try to tell you useful things; I suppose I should get back to that. I can, though, rationalize my outpouring and pretend "there is something vital here" but it is probably just that old-old need to try, like a crackhead scraping down a glass pipe, for that feeling that someone is understanding me - if not now, then in the mysterious future. There is something vital here, I guess, and it's just this one man's need to cry, and try to bury his head in the lap of someone vital and true. I long for the army of my memories to rise again and press in around me, to rip away my body and destroy it, to take me with them back into the death that seemed to pass me by, to make me know for certain that it wasn't just a delusion - that someone, maybe even a lot of people, once shared and understood life with me.
Is it really bad? Is it pathetic? I can't tell. Is it profound in any way? I guess I just can't be allowed to know.
I think I am writing to fictional people: the children I won't have and the next generation of committed art cultists. I'm imagining, Darger-like, my own world, but this time not one of fantasy, per se, but of reinvention, in which I never did experience the losses that made me bitter, never realized that I was alone in certain feelings, that I was never weak enough to negate myself in hopes that it would make me more worthy of lasting love.
It should be arranged that the people prone to this path are not allowed to indulge it. It is like an addiction because you will cry as you reach for it: you will take it into your hand and being the process of consuming it while you pray that a force or spirit will stop you. You will weep and say "oh god no" as you consume it and immediately forget why you resisted. I don't know if there is a cure, but I do think there is a preventative measure; it should be taken into consideration and decided: should the person be embraced? If not, the person must be put out of mind forever. If so, there can be no lapses. If there is a lapse, the person must be put out of mind forever, and we must reject the language that says that is a bad or immoral way to feel and think, because it is far, far worse to torment such people, owing to their sensitivity, because it generates a kind of suffering that is self-sustaining and self-augmenting and it has only one release. It's better to kill the thing that will never again stop feeling pain, or can never be healed even to a manageable level.
Maybe it's like the litter laws: if you pick it up, you are responsible for it. If you can't be responsible for it - don't pick it up.
One thing that has been good about this recent plunge into the abyss is that guilt has evaporated, to an extent. I am in too much pain to experience guilt very plausibly, lately.
Okay, look: I feel mostly anger, right now, at having been allowed to reach this point. My wife, my family, my friends - I am angry at all of you right now, and it's been getting worse every day for months. I get more angry when you compliment me, though I have learned to smile in a new non-Boyd-like sincere-seeming way and sound pretty grateful for the compliments, but here is what is going on in my mind:
"Hey thanks a fuck of a lot. That's fucking great. If any part of it were fucking true, you wouldn't have let me suffer a fucking decade alone, you fucking liar."
Sucky, non? But there you have it. I am envious of any even minor success or outlet I'm told about, now. I do rather dislike this, and I do find it inexcusable, but I also find that it just isn't vulnerable to reason, or focused love. I find I should ignore it, because any treatment of it at all opens up a logical progression which ends with me being more angry until the anger does become hatred and who does one tell such things to?
"Sorry I hate you man; you know I love you; it's just that way you said you'd do it and you never ever fucking did."
"Sorry I hate you, darling, it's just how you shat all over me for those years; that's the only reason I suddenly realize what forgiveness is for and how fucked it is that I can't give it to you. Years ago, it wouldn't have even been an issue; it would have flowed like milk; but now, all I can feel is the suffering of suffering for nothing, the pain of meaningless pain, and the rage of the abandoned seven-year-old I will hopefully soon die as.
"Sorry it's coming out like this, but damn: it's so true. You really do find me always smiling and loving you, don't you? Even when you are nothing but hate and cold and stupid problems. Even when you have just spent all your energy tearing me down. Even when you have left me years ago but suddenly remember that I was a man of kindness and virtue and honesty, that I was your friend when I was your lover, that you were a terrible friend to me. Then. Now, you want that friend back."
But he's not here anymore. He died years ago and you didn't give a fuck, then. Did you? If you did, you should be aware that he never knew. All he knew was that you left him. All alone. And that's right where he's come back to, now, so it just happens to be pretty fucking fresh, that wound you left him with. He bled out, and now it's just me, and I am not very nice, anymore.
My father must have gone the same way. I've always wondered how such an intelligent and perceptive guy could be such a complete dick. There you have it: just like me. Just like him. I've known for years what my mother did to him (nothing exciting, folks: just left him, is all, for being cranky) and even before I understood that, I understood why she left him: she didn't love him. I wonder if she ever did? That would be a great question to ask her! Heh.
Can I take some more time to rail and spew rage and hurt at the nameless faces of my past? No? Fuck you, then. Peace.
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