Tuesday, May 10, 2016

what is it the river washes ashore? (recommended).

description: the work submitted concerns personal arguments against imagined, romanticized anarchy loosely compared to anarchy as a realism. another matter includes anarchism as set in the exploited role of ideology as opposed to anarchism as considered commitments to actions taken on behalf of the self. one laments one is unable to detach, discontinue oneself from environmental resources they are cynical both of and cynical of parting from (as they know not without).

anarchy is a reward for bravery today (give me that propaganda). this is where one arrives after passing all symbolic punishments that are separate from the breeding of humanity. i fear they are creeping up in this safe zone, as well. i fear they always had something to do with the indoctrinated experience of human animals, obsessed with seeking more than that which is.
if this is so, "anarchist" is a delicate identity, we learn. one must nurture, else a revealing shows such was magnetized. what will happen then, that point when all the beliefs of achieving a transgression have been limitations in and of themselves? 

really transgress.

in my bed thinking about all this shit i am so depressed; depressed over my thought and my action not fusing into deliberate synthesis. this is where i am lead in the moment.
in spite of my kaleidiscopic swelling, i do not find a single possibility to discipline myself into shrinking strictly into one persona to dedicate myself to, though i have not looked absolutely everywhere- i've exhausted myself in advance. it is so that one single persona is quite limited, this cannot be denied- and restriction is never healthy for anyone.

BOMB SHELTER I.           the rigidity of intellectuality will distort itself to engulf only one wandering thought- that of liberation (then is when i wish to go back home and hide as one is determined to inside their respective house); an argument regarding anarchy very consciously as a silent dream apart from the overstunted obsession of the self (seemingly conceptual as all distances).
            one is trapped in disappointment and believes belief is obedience. this innocence does not dig one any further past the ephemeral proximity of diversion. i continue my “alone” thing- this sheltered state is my choice. guerilla warfare one day. direct action, very technically committing. finding ideas to manifest a new form of activism, eventually (if i can stop picturing myself as dead already); leading the revolution with undeniable potentiality- this vague goal is so vague it applies to every human being.
first and foremost, if i want to get anywhere, learn anything i want: working through massive insecurities, doing what i can there, i think- not yet understanding my personal condition within my individual (separated) mind (the great gift where all projects light; the great indoctrination of heaving shadow)...but i'll get there. consciously, i am terrified without the power of the mind, that i've worked hard to condition. a diametric to the former: i'm so ashamed of the conditioning that wasn't insisted by me, but marked by my susceptibility.

i must accept both of these relationships i have with my mind.

meanwhile, i continue this engagement with life, the very light that breeds, insistently refusing determinations when noticed.

on a further personal, paranoid note: 
            engaging in anarchy- revolting for utopia- is difficult as one accepts the pharmaceuticals that soak not just the rivers within myself, but too, the rivers of the world outside of my body- back again into the rivulets of one’s one physicality. there is no explanation for why i do this to myself other than i've been caught up in it for a long time, i feel stuck, i've been told this is how i am to be treated, for this is how we treat the sick. if you have ever "been through hell", and i'm sure you believe you have, dante algheri doesn't have shit on you. you realize this traversing has been rationalized into sickness as an identity. i don't pretend to understand how that convinces me anymore.
i know i am unfocused, lacking in short-term memory in seemingly random spurts, traumatized-staring at phantoms all day, innately sensitive, completely unsure of what my feelings, thoughts, and reality are-and unspeakably confused in other ways...certainly, it can be imagined how insulted i feel when on the receiving end of the opinions of others.

it seems to me people are disgusted by life and speak through me about it. i love life. it's the diversions that disgust me.

with some toning (a lot, but how do we measure abstract concepts?) i believe i will work away from this struggle the closer i get to reality.
one accepts phenomena as something outside one’s perceived experience. (a part of one’s life secretes, drips, burns holes in one's feet.)   
this is often overlooked, i think: if i personally didn't accept pharmacopeia in my physicality, and in my mind, what would i do other than suck the teat of a mother who treats herself differently than i want to treat myself? other than fight? other than not have a chance at growing up?


you have an unbelievable gift to mimic the realities of others. this is your life. when there aren't other realities to mimics, you're unable to understand the emptiness, as your gift is not yet explored as a gift- it is not accepted. you are certifiably crazy. (you don't know, but you are so resolute it is sexually attracting.)
            you continue to want- not excessively, necessarily. you are curious to explore until you explore. you want to allow an engaging in anarchy- such is difficult when you haven't broken your own rules yet (you don't know what your own rules are).
you have been spending life often making sure you are surviving in often remote, indescribable instincts- the inability to describe what it is that keeps you alive, that's what kills a part of your desire to live. the next moment the actions of the moment former will be repeated. you've learned you're careless about the concept of "happiness"- some impossible standard we feel guilty for not reaching; something to feel obligated to feel.
you romanticize even when you don't want to, you keep it alive in your mind, not allowing the immaterials to leave- no matter how rich in relevance it is not, you have touched it already. it is stuck to your feeling.
your interest in finding ways to refine your mind is your only interest. you don't care about going other places- you prefer to house yourself inside yourself, accepting such as a shrine of anarchy. you don't have any other place to go yet. you dissociate more than anything else, supposedly to protect yourself from pain. this is a gift- mimicking the realities of those you are not even aware of. do not forget that you have this gift. keep it: you show others their realities. they need to see. the gift is unrecognized by others, consciously. but they know how it counts.
this is not to neglect saying the gift has you on a leash.

you're actively suffering as you catch up with figuring out what suffering is and if you're even suffering or are convinced of suffering, perhaps the word "suffer" convinces you of suffering and this is evidence that your sensitivity is deeply innate.
where are your cool anarchist friends you shoot the impressive anarchist vernacular with, all agreeing with one another?
you want it all to yourself.

deeply cross-eyed, generating information is a fuzzy sensation. it fizzles away before it sinks in. you call yourself stupid. you are madly in love with your genius, deeply set in its demands. you follow your consciousness. wandering, you call yourself stupid again.

enter your wounds. this is how you will find birth- birth of purity.

it's going to be understood you will not follow a protocol outside of the guidelines listed above (in the present; only in the present).

it's likely there is a major rift inside of you. it wishes not to scare you- nor does it wish to fear you. 

this rift is your sense of self. it does not own your life, your light. see more than indoctrinations and truths that seem sad; illusions- though these are not enemies, these are not your friends. you are your own teacher. you are light.

            i brought my hands to my breasts, ducked my head, and dived, using my hands to push the water aside. the water pressed in on my eardrums and on my heart. i pushed my weight down with my pelvic bone. however, before i knew where i was- or why i needed to know- the water spat me up into the sun. the world was sparkling all about me like blue and green and yellow flakes of minerals.
            i dashed the water from my eyes.
            i was panting, as after a strenuous exertion, but floating, without effort.
            i dived, and dived again, and each time popped up like a cork.
            the grey rock mocked me, bobbing on the water easy as a lifebuoy.
            i knew when i was beaten.
            i turned back.*
            the water has seemed to have beaten me upon thought, several streams of vocalizations distrusting of one another. this being so, as it has always been, i sighed and felt- trusted my feeling. it offers not what i want but a gravity i move gracefully with, this force isn’t mine- but i trust it is a force. everything inside of me is of its own. and in my “mind”, i need what i want at this rate, though so ashamed and embarrassing this is. this is what i was taught from day one- forgivable atlas- my tracks evade all else. i don’t find this impressive. but this is my way of moving, my belief i can move effortlessly, this is the most useful trick i picked up- figuring out a gravity that the bottoms of my feet can move across the ground with. i’m not going to stop, whether it’s a possibility or not.
            a person older than myself is often advised not to drop, for instance, a tobacco habit, as it has become a part of them. without the habit, all that would be left is crises, hitting hard, throwing one onto hard grounds- concrete (scratching one's self against the concrete). the act of being alone with or as thoughts,
too, are thoughts we hide from ourselves- death syndrome. i want to throw myself out of my world for one, in my innate shyness, my misguided loneliness- or do i want to throw myself out of my outspoken world to be assimilated? this is an ultimatum. i cannot run away from my problems. (i can work to learn from them.)
i know how to hide my emotional states even when i want to scream at a person that i need their help. perhaps they cannot help me, and that's why i'm unable to do it. perhaps an assimilation is not a choice worth sampling.

BOMB SHELTER II. PRIESTESS:          without that which gives me my ability to spy outside of my obsessions, i believe i'd be in an even more believably dangerous place. one spends every moment of one’s life breastfeeding the self. that's exhausting enough, as one hasn't experienced joy or pleasure yet. one feels inferior and it’s not just the assimilation, or rejection from such- these are hardly consistently the matter. one feels overwhelmed and like one wants to hurt themselves as a result of generating information. that which is sharp moves with static feels fuzzy, and is jumbled; that which is free of frequency seems clear as a bell.

            one is confused, still.

            one romanticizes that which comes one’s way should it come when one happens to be paying attention- and molds it into a muse for one’s self in order to look somewhere but downward. i don't know what is relevant to reality, and often don't care, because it is relief from knowing my emptiness i seek.
            i do not reject the notion that my health needs to be taken care of. the circulation of money, i admit, is not the pain of my heart. my “mind”, a rotting appendage, is confounded and this seems to rule my life though i understand the mind was not born until after i was to benefit sources outside my own.
            of course fear is a component in my personal suffering. however, first and foremost, my sensitivity comes first. my misguided intelligence, my invalidation of such beginning as early as i remember. let’s not forget the abuse, the neglect, and the being surrounded by extreme personality traits which i now possess 
            i feel so uncomfortable with going to unfamiliar places that just thinking about it makes i want to escape to fantasies that are currently mostly centered around sex.
            though i want the attention of the anarchists, and i accept and adore the wisdoms i’ve learned from anarchists, i'd prefer to house myself inside myself, accepting such as a shrine of anarchy worth nurturing. it is factually acceptable it (anarchy) is everywhere- however, often ignored. it is in the sky, the sea; it is in every molecule and every source of reality. (conclusively) what i’m getting at is it is not a microcosm.

            it's likely this is all splitting, anarchy, because i loved you so much- idolized you- yesterday and for many years prior to today. however, i ask, do you know what splitting is? do you ever have to learn? it's likely you don't.

*the bell jar, sylvia plath.