Monday, October 12, 2015

manifesto preamble.

i haven't been able to write how i wanted to today- it's really hurting my feelings, especially because i took a week-long break from doing so. i'm not sure how i know i am more detached than usual today, but i realize that that's what is bothering me. i think i was less detached than usual for like three days is why.
like how i am with my jacket, my locking of everything, and my watching everything i do, i'm sort of a master at finding ways to protect myself against the looming fear of absurd things happening always possibly out to get me- to which the evidence tends to lack, probably because i block so much out that there is next to no evidence of my history as i have perceived it. that's the shitty part. that's the part that leaves me wondering whether things really happened or if i imagined they happened. countless beliefs.
without protection i am as vulnerable as i am. with or without the vulnerability, i am many other things. i am also strong: i will myself.
what i gauge as typicalities are fine by me. i'll be hunched over the sink and the vacuum cleaner 'til death do we part. i will re-fold every last towel if i must. more than anything, it's the dishes that weigh with the power of simplicity- with purity. there's nothing to interpret. it's everything else i need to be superstitious about.

today was my last day with my therapist of three and a half years. i feel nothing except pretty fucking flat.
i don't get torn by the ends of relationships. i separate my memories of them from myself without even meaning to. it's the ideas i grieve over. it's the loss of memories, of brilliant epiphanies- death over and fucking over again, fifty to one hundred times a day- stabs to the very god resting in my chest cavity. nothing hurts more. nothing is so demoralizing.
i don't praise my therapist but i love and respect her (present tense feels pretty off though, so maybe i stopped as of today). she has been the sober, constant source of reality in a life where i have consistently rejected the value of realities otherwise, no matter what i fit myself into, no matter what "identity" i stuff my hobo bindle up and feng shui my way into.
time and time again i have proven i am either intolerant or-i really i mean it-i cannot do anything that requires a rigid structuring. (i find solace in reminding myself that it's historically proven none fully attuned to their genius without interference can- so i must be among this elite crowd. cultural integration is asking too much of someone who believes in the validity of everything else, although of course cultural integration is also valid.) suppose there is nothing to miss or yearn for if it is not here- suppose objects are as inconstant as they are. suppose this is okay as much as i can grow easily flustered, panic-struck, confused and frantic over it. suppose it is all okay.
i don't know why we have to fit into anything anyway when we're connected already; nested entirely into present consciousness as is. say we're not entirely observant of the present state of consciousness- suppose we're not delicately balancing our unconscious presences and conscious presences. so what if that's so. so what if i'm filled with "voids". suppose i've learned more about life by accepting these voids at some points and rejecting them at other times. suppose i feel like i'm onto something. guess what. i do feel like i'm onto something.
and if i know the present, i don't want to delve into a passive entropy. there are thoughts i expect to be true and there's that which turns out to be another truth. isn't it okay that both happened even though they aren't the same? we are treated with mutilation and i have the power to reject this, or to turn it into something that grows from it. i have an ability to observe and express the observation. i want to know whats outside of knowledge. it doesn't matter how i get there. perhaps there is a lot to learn and it has nothing to do with being traumatized and unwell and unable to fit when i want to fit. of course i long. suppose that's just as much a component of the truth as my capabilities to learn from it are.
my pineal gland leaks excess sensory input i've exposed it to (either meaning to with innocent dissonance, or incidentally because my country is based on an ogliarchy-model in which we enable the money-addiction sickness of the upperclassmen. *and of each other*.)
my dreams can now be anything. they are the response to the sensory input. restless as i am, because of my dreams, it is impossible for me to go insane.

i had hoped my therapist thought i was brave or something for willing myself into revealing "personal" information. today, i revealed some new awful i did today, though i wasn't sure if i was awful or "in the right", as usual. she wanted to know why i revealed personal information so easily. i dislike ending a relationship on this note: for the first time, i felt defective for my "revealing"- though, i'm not sure i know what defects are other than judgments passed on misunderstandings.
my personal life is small talk. it is impersonal for me unless it is shame- shame takes gradual steps to work out of and many musings over "society". all i care about is lightning striking me, and learning from it. i'm alive over and over. don't you know i want to thank this? every experience gives to me and the multiverse.