Friday, May 6, 2016

the night sea, home of the dead.


the homeless man is homeless because he will not accept reality- though walking around, though breathing, he is dead. he is greedy and must be rubbed out.
his touch is unwanted. his bed sheets have been properly folded and burned. if this did not seem barbaric, the law enforcement of limited knowledge concerning their assigned guns they carry (which they hide behind, as well as a makeshift layer of skin collected from those they've shot) shoot the homeless man. they sever his limbs and throw them around. the law enforcement officers do not understand these acts against soothing humanity are sacrifice of their own selves, and their longings that stay put- which go ignored (these longings can be relied on to never leave them).
their existential confusions as to determining what power truly is guide them into seeking solutions from their immoderate use of their guns (this is called permissible violence). the rush of shooting their guns is reassuring enough that they are lead to believe it is the self which casts power. it is the self which pulls the trigger of guns. it is the self which makes things happen without being chased by consequences- so the law enforcement officers have learned, anyway. wouldn't you say that's awfully powerful?
power moves with force, this is so. power also forces its way into all the rooms the homeless man was cast from to deliver a frequency individual only to his life-force that once was.
there is a white pool of light. when one is exposed to this, this is when they've accepted reality. accepting reality is power. there is equanimity; stasis- the balance one carries as one looks without being overpowered by the looking. between the delicate lines power's stillness remains undemanding of being found.

i am burdened with frustration. i was not sure whether or not the homeless man was homeless or not due to developmental conditioning, i'm sure. i gave him a dollar or whatever amount of dollar bills i had. however, i'm more concerned about my own disarming violence i face.
even in my confused mind- this said confusion i now believe is all that constitutes the pain of so-called "mental illness" before the oncoming upheaval of cultural abuse (being measured alongside the standardized demands others achieve- being held back by barriers, drowning below them), i have been humbled with the capability of telling myself i am one of the more "intelligent" (genius restricted to the sense of self) people i've known in my life. i spend my life waiting for the ideas i experience, worshiping them as if saints. they seem to originate from change, which they continue to be of. change is god. god is the universe.
i wanted to be a marine. there was an examination process. the marks on my arms, i was told in my mind, indicated something disturbing within the [person or persons] sizing them up. they only saw themselves, and they saw my scarring. others grips are not strong of understanding. like the homeless man, my limbs, too, were dismembered, slowly- by barbed wires then, they were sold to so-called non-profit organizations representing causal promotion benefiting profit for those in charge of organizations in (accusational) question.

i'm sorry, it's just i have a hard time believing anything that sells itself without putting forth evidence as evidence is the foundation of trust. nobody knows i'm actually a cop, so i know things about the reality of evidence.

my limbs with their marks were sold to commercial profiteers. my limbs were to be photographed on a block of concrete. this direction is believed to shock people into reacting with subservience immediately- give money, limbs, whatever- so long as one professes their giving up. funds accumulate (DUST ACCUMULATES. DUST ACCUMULATES.) from this to go forth into a more ambitious project- a commercial production benefiting the causal disgrace of global sufferings. the goal of this project, it is hoped, is for the sake of keeping up with the hierarchy, to continue soaking in shit, and immortalize (despite this being based on impossibility and following examples set to be bought), the so-convinced "shocking" image of my limbs are to be presented again in this project.

in a commercial much akin to the wounded warrior project, in my quadriplegic state i am shown in a wheelchair with duct tape tightly binded across my mouth. two others in similar states as mine and myself as spun around in our apparent helplessnesses, tortured by marketers of "discreet" terrorisms, laughing, slapping our faces, feeding us psychotropic medications guaranteed to trigger the iatrogenic state of slowed metabolism, eventual obesity. we have been mistaken as products of violence witnessed by our torturers- our "guards"- while playing with toys (either earlier that day or during their formative states, when they were still blatant victims).
or perhaps everything happens for a reason,

human interaction begins to feel like the silence of walls, pretending one another are not present. (at least those caught in this disconnect, this antisocial behavior will not kill one another). when i fuck, i am a fetish, because i am looked at as a limbless woman. i am my passions, my desires- and my dedications to my contradictions- and these alone.


so, hell opposes reality (utopia), and this is why i demand the "sentiment" above of the reader in question.

a group of family members of proclaimed "mentally ill" people gather- not to speak to the best of their abilities about what they can do to help, but to scream about the crises that their children are in psychiatric facilities. you motherfuckers can all suck it. the name of the group is the acronym NAMI (national alliance of the mentally ill. this is perceived as oxymoronic, as the words "mentally ill" stigmatize and suppress the populace NAMI expounds in its sheepish martyrdom).

the son of a decent, well-meaning father continuously cries for help through the extended languages of drugs, drug overdoses, other traces of bodily harm, harm to others, and other criminal activity, such as frequent, grandiose shoplifting rituals (although crime would not exist without regulations, as the facade of universal "morals" would no longer need to be rebelled against in our desperate codes). the understandably desperate father of this also desperate young man has mentioned these ongoing disruptions of his son's, and, to an extent, his less ostensible vulnerabilities, such as problems with taking measures to attempt to control a distorted body image and a diagnosis of narcissistic personality disorder (and the list, as it goes, continues expanding).
we know nothing of the father, aside from his valid outpouring of highly pitched emotions. he has finally permitted his self to feel.
it is certainly understandable this father traverses his own personal hell, paralleling that of his sons. however, it will be addressed that the father stigmatizes his son. in the father's panic and misunderstanding of the realities of both that of his sons as well as his own, he has been guided to believe exploitation of his son- as though a possession- is how one learns to "advocate" masterfully.
since the first noticeable scintilla of extension of language, learned in silence (which, in modern day english, translates to "hear me"), nobody in the family has looked at the problems of anyone (including those of their own) with the exception of this son, who one would expect to degenerate. they do not need to look at anything except the problems of the son. it is "convenient" to do so. convenience is not necessarily expansive of the mind nor is it helpful to the cause of many people, but that's not how it's sold to our susceptible minds. (as opposed to encouragement to innovate, one is encouraged to observe the innovations of others.)
the gifts, talents, beauty, intelligence, longings, and everything except the son's personal hell (and the damages of such) go overlooked. they waste away. unwittingly, the son goes on to host the responsibility of a new role to attend to- he is a scapegoat, blamed for his personal hell as opposed to his indefinable relationship with his responsibilities with his said gifts, talents, beauty, intelligence, longings, and everything except his personal hell (and the damages of such). the identified ill loses his connections with such as he cuts his heart out in his guilt, which lasts for an indeterminate amount of time (time is also a fallacy i trouble myself obeying).

everything shrivels but his role, including his language. he smells. we hope he doesn't suicide. 

NAMI loves him.