Monday, August 24, 2015

death of the cool.

it was time to face the separation- the separation of the hook in the eye; of the beliefs and my attachments to them. the ego considers this uproarious and stands up for itself- the sun growing to absorb the solar system, all the things i have imagined but disconnected from...allow the sun its hunger. i am either incapacitated or discombobulated because beliefs confuse me but i have them. my beliefs are invested in reality, and this awareness is the closest i'll get to them.

my beliefs will not rescue me, and i am still a source of light without them.

i. POST.

...i don't want to be alone with life ever again. i need those beliefs to accompany me- i need to assert them; to apply them to my life.
today i woke up. i felt great exhaustion and pain, and continue to. i ate cereal, laid down on the couch, accomplished a few small goals, sprinkled baking soda over my shag and then laid down on my bed. i "popped" my PRN downer that i've been treating less like a PRN and more like a regular dreamy drug, so i could sleep. i masturbated in my bed, but i hated it. i feel like a bad person with unresolved problems when i masturbate. the thought of sexual abuse- did it or did it not happen? it did not happen- attends to itself, bringing my attention to it in my head. additionally, i am angry that i cannot focus on my fantasies. i hate these stupid pornographic fantasies. i might as well be a sex worker, so it seems. i already feel like a whore about myself- branding myself, unable to distinguish what's my private life and what are the performances....i think i am trying to separate my sense of self from my performances, which i am far more intimate with then my privacies. it is sad. feeling like a prostitute to take care of oneself is sad. i might as well jack off to myself being murdered and liking it.
sometimes, masturbating helps me sleep.
i have not been able to sleep yet though because i am so afraid of missing my appointment with my therapist hours and hours from now. i've only missed a handful appointments, due to migraines, but called ahead of time to cancel. in therapy....


i sow many seeds that one could easily romanticize. i don't know how to describe how i feel in therapy because i've never really taken the time to describe it before. i can say i dislike how i feel. i dislike how i look at myself, i dislike how i think. this is normal for me, but it intensifies. i hate therapy.
"am i malingering?" i need a lot of reassurance about this. "are you sure i'm not just malingering?
"have i disappointed you? are you sure i'm not disappointing you?"

i never believe my therapist. i believe she is judging me. the core of my persona- the hidden content- i believe fully reveals itself in therapy. this is who i really "am". fearing of judgement, awkward, awkward-voiced, stealing of personalities, plagiarizing of the words others have used, pretentious, fake-voiced, judgmental, mean and rude and manipulative, and i look like a sickly rat. a little thing. insecure. always hiding something, no matter how little, no matter what it is i do reveal- which is often a lot. a shrinking violet.

i leave therapy, agitated and freaking the fuck out.


....i'll say, "i'm not sure i know how to love." is the preconception of love another cultural imposition, one we open our arms to the invasion of....or am i just writing it off? i know what we are all composed of- pure light- is love. the real love. are we too far removed?
i imagine this will be thwarted. obviously, love is relevant. however, it is still an inchoate concept- a fixation. i'm voracious for searching for the mr right in every man i meet.'s for my well-being. it must be attended to. this i know is past the point of being a concept. is this the stuff that kills me, makes me small? am i blaming my smallness, my killed parts on my suffering?

yes, suffering is clearly alive. it has been since the beginning of the multiverse. it has steadied itself- perhaps the only source of energy that has found purpose.
we search throughout suffering as it permeates every atom in the air- which i can see (they are all quite social), and sometimes taste the smells and feel the prickly songs of. i can interrupt every reverie to be with this humbling constant- to submit myself. submitting to its power, grieving over the loss of my own illusory willfulness...this is survivor's guilt. i feel less humbled by suffering and more guilty for suffering.
survivor's guilt has an impregnated perfume...the spell of weight. it is with survivor's guilt i learn that i do not know where i live, that survival expires, what i do not care about weighs as much as what i do care about- which is much less. damned if i do and damned if i don't, exhausted, facing repercussions of the immobility of guilt. little do i know that there is an end to guilt. little do i know there is a point where i can easily drift into knowing what love feels like without meaning to- even while pressed under the weight of the guilt. i cannot accept it until i separate myself from the guilt. i cannot love. such a cost exists.

life is all about fairness. oh, come and jobs and going to school do not equate fairness; "fair economy". selling your stuff, showering everyday, being unhappy with the heat of the summer and the cold during the winter time is not fairness. wanting to be well when you're sick and not holding gratitude for wellness is not fairness. craving but not knowing what for is not fairness.
purity is fairness. and i am pure, perhaps inchoate and out of contact. the birth is difficult. but it is a process i am involved in.