I have never seen so many sane people. I mean it: those who are there either know themselves or are trying to know. Out here, most people only se themselves yet what they see is but a reflection, an image reflected in a mirror. But that mirror doesn’t reflect them, it reflects others, and those are also ignorant to who they are seeing. But in the mental home, not one person is looking at others, much less at the mirror. They are looking or trying to direct their sight toward themselves, so then they can see their surroundings. And once they achieved, it really works out greatly.
I can’t shake the hatred off. Convincing ourselves that people aren’t as bad as they are is an ongoing job that takes a lot out of anyone.
Everyone will hang with you as long as they feel the need to.
Everyone will leave you to your grave if they think your corpse will stink.
It’s being quite a thrill to feel comfortable enough to be as honest and open and direct as I have been more and more to anyone. And I felt trust in return. But still…
I’ve been used as a bridge, as all else have; as a cry-on, as all ears have, and undoubtedly as a a scapegoat.
Most of my friends are just the gone-off sheep of the lovefueled heart entrust I’ve come to know I shall never have.
I need to love and I choose to and I choose who. You need to forget everything once in a while and choose me as a brother-in-arms so you feel secure and also ensure that someone else’s to blame. For whatever it is you want to put out as you hang with me.
I’ve surely done the same to people here and there. Of course I never led them to believe in my heart-felt heart-meant heart-tied companionship and evercaring.
But that’s just me. And I’m the urban spaceman, if you know the twist
So love being this or love being such, those assumptions, conclusions, arbitrary statements could never work. But yes, there is love in such and those.
There is love in feeling your arm numb and not caring at all with the tactless of your fingers on the plate because you’re happy that you’re making her breakfast and that it was under her that your arm stopped receiving blood.
There is love is not caring about not using the heavy drugs the substance you cared so much you almost gave your life for. There is love in loving pot because you did pot with her but still not growing fond of pot because you’re all fond of her.
There is love in that smile that sends your lonely beat up self away and pulls the real you inner on the in that is the company of her.
There is love in her body pressuring yours and pulling yours under her; there’s love when she rests her head on your face or move her legs through yours and you feel such grace while thinking “this body is with my body and she cares for me” and you’re so amazed that happens because it happens with that person so perfect that a couple of weeks before you thought the idea of such happening was nonsense daydreaming.
There is love in all that and much more and love is finding love in such.
I just got the major boner as I got my bag of cocaine and sat here thinking about me.
Maybe I’m addicted.
It’s been a daily struggle to shake off that feeling of a constant collapsing surrounding us, which is not a constant but rather just something increasingly more frequent. One perishes and that feeling comes strong and you have to remind yourself that while that one tired off and led themself out of this apparently collapsing world we must struggle forth. And it really is not as hard as it seems: there is so much growth around those collapsing pillars — we just have to lean on that instead of leaning on the dying.
As for the sadness cast upon us on this day, on the passing of a largely admired artist, a human being, someone who I don’t remember touching me in a personal level as much as has done to others, I can only understand it through the words of a preacher: if a part of Europe gets watered off in the sea, Europe changes, for that stranded land was part of what made Europe itself. The same way, the death of another man diminishes me, for I am part of human kind. (ask not for whom the bells toll — the bells toll for you)
The past is for staying as it is. Death won’t kill. Time changes no bygones.
Every moment of joy is to be reliquished and every pain hurts.
The sadness is that the most joyful moments past can’t be revived yet the most paintful days sore constantly.
me before lunch: I’ll have this pasta then I’m gonna run a couple of miles before zipping a coffee and digging through half this book I’ve just started.
me after lunch: I’m a cat and I’ll just sleep for the rest of my life and no one can take that away from me.
You’ve eyed and inn’d the beauty from the outer, a fairness only readable by ye, and whatever happens then, all that has been and all that is beautiful is there, within thee, secured from wrongness there forward. Danke schön.
Sometimes I feel like Dillon from the first Predator film other times I feel like maybe I’m Scharzenegger or the quiet and respectful indian guy there’s even a few times when I like to think of myself as the local girl who talks about EL DIABLO! EL DIABLO! But mostly I really wish I was just one of the first corpses found and got rid of all the ugly shit we all saw later
It’s been three days. Three days out of thirty-three years in which I have been able to read and write at least since I was about four, maybe five, and this is the first time I ever remember having been impeded ––no! Prohibited from writing. I actually believe that maybe russian anarchists and the Marqués de Sade felt less troubled finding ways to write while confined.
And the reason? Well, I could, and that is a fact, kill myself with a pen. It would takes lots of strength, but it is doable. Okay. Thing is, they also prohibited me from taking in the pen’s refill. You know, the ink refill, confined in a soft plastic rubber-like tube? So I can’t take a pen or an ink tube into the clinic because even this second one carries suicide risk (don’t ask me how).
One look around any room in this institute an I can already think of various manners of assaulting, fatally or not, anyone here, yours truly included. Bureaucracy is stupid. Burrocracy11 does not treat addiction. Bureaucracy obstructs art.
It also took three days to get the books I brought with me when checking in. Note that they were already with me. They had to go though “customs”, which is also understandable, but that administrative area is close by the patients house where I would be settled in. Meaning: they never even left the institute’s premises. Still, three days. I had to read Hemingway. Slowly And I mean slowly. That’s slow- — take a big pause there… wait… just a little more… now: -ly
11 That’s a wordplay on “burro” (portuguese for “stupid”, “dumb”), which slightly resembles the brazilian word for bureaucracy, which is “burocracia” [bu.ɾu.kɾɐ.sˈi.ɐ]
If you don’t have a song
To sing you’re okay
You know how to get along
If you don’t have a date
Go out and sit on the lawn
And do nothing
‘Cause it’s just what you must do
Nobody does it anymore
No I don’t believe in the wasting of time,
But I don’t believe that I’m wasting mine
If you don’t have a point to make
Don’t sweat it
You’ll make a sharp one being so kind
And I’d sure appreciate it
Everyone else’s goal’s to get big headed
Why should I follow that beat being that I’m
Better than fine
So I have finally decided to put myself onto a rehabilition program which’s results I can’t even begin to wonder how will be but considering how difficult it is for me to even type — it’s like my brain functions are unable to participate in my writing skills [it’s an effort just to type this words and correct the many mistakes such as meaningless chacarcters jumping on the screen without my fingers even realizing what they are doing here on the keyboard] it’s become more than obvious that such drastic measure needed to be taken and it’s been so for quite a while now.
It’s not just a drugs & alcohol abuse issue — I’ve been feeling unspeakably depressive and trying to suppress those feelings with mind and behavior chemical distractions.
By tommorrow afternoon definite bureaucratic measures will be taken on that matter. I don’t feel hopeful or desperate in anyway. I feel nothing — nothing at all — for that matter. Only thing I’m sure is that at least I have put those demi-suicidal thoughts aside.
So here’s to whatever’s about to come!
I hate feeling hated, or left out, left behind, cast aside. Feeling of abandonment… Wonder how many times I might have inflicted that on others.
I’ve wronged, I’ve wronged and I’ve wronged, but I did my best and felt like so. Friends fall apart, but only time should be able to set them apart, for no human being should have the coldness to decide so. None should feel the cold sting of been chosen not to be part of one’s life anymore. “For practical reasons”.
Like a company leting an employee go. Like a logistics expert canceling purchases.
I don’t think I’ll ever be able to describe this mixed up feelings inside me. It’s all new to me. All too painful.
I keep ringing over and over to my self: “It’s your fault. It’s your fault. It’s your fault” so I don’t have to feel angry, so I don’t get so confused, but I’m not convincing myself. Maybe there’s nowt to blame. And that’s what makes it so hard.
And there is no drug or amount of alcohol to overlap this.
I cried when he told the story in a post. Tears of joy they were. A few hours later, I re-read it and once again I cried — tears of joy again I cried. I’ll try and tell the story as best as I can.
Having gone away and being back feeling unsucessful — in debt with both family and bank — he of course felt frustrated, if not worse. Things were uncertain. Moving away from one’s hometown can be awful scary, and being disappointed in such enterprise will most certainly be quite damaging, I suppose. And not only that, a long lasting relationship had come to an end, whatever reasons, and so he as broken in that manner as well. Depressed, not knowing what exactly happend, much less what would come from then, a friend of his offered him another professional chance at yet another state in Brazil. But he missed his chance. The selection date passed by. He decided to at least write an email to the company then. And he did.
Only thing is, he went a little too far on his explanations. He told ’em what happened — on personal level as well — he told ’em about the break up and he summed thing up by stating he was probably not the best choice for the company at that moment, being in such an unbalanced emotion state.
And they responded. Yes. There was a picture of the staff: everyone was making little hearts with their hands and smiling at the camera, all together. In the text, they said they hope his heart would feel full again and that those people in the picture were there waiting for him, to nourish and take care him.
So this is it: there is still so much grace and caring in the world! And I’m thankful that he shared his story to remind of that. And for that purpose I share it with you.
Whenever I feel sad, I just watch and listen to Karen Gillan’s Daleks’ impression. It has all of her loveliness and all of their loveliness (well, there is some, okay?) all in a couple of seconds. So yeah, it’s like some uber lovely cutie wobbly thing.
Unloved. That would be word for it. And it’s not like people don’t make their efforts to show me love, and I have no reasons to doubt them. What interest would anyone have in pretending to love? There might be some self righteous vibe to it, I supposed, but I don’t really see it. I see them as sincere. Still, I feel unloved. Perhaps there’s some distance between internal me and my reception of others. Perhaps it’s just the junk, or current-state-wise, lack of it.