Nothing else
Nothing is a frightening prospect, still not as frightening as being here. At least it’s true. What a waste of time to be living in such falseness, fake is everywhere. Or maybe I should go and live with the Aboriginals, going on walkabouts. That would burn stuff away for certain. But. It could be just the thing, to be surrounded by false, fake, untrue, fog, to remind me of what I do not want to be my reality. Maybe those stretches of time where I paused in the process were necessary, the valley parts of the waves, things had to sink in, changes had to be assimilated in my body and battered mind. My surroundings might be best for me, with neighbour spawn to remind me daily of what life is like when you’re living your nightmare of ignorance.
As a young girl I was angry and surprised to see what people could do and get away with, I wanted to see them punished in some way, it was much later when I started to realize that the way they were living their lives was their ‘punishment’. Direct cause and effect.
Now I don’t know what is true anymore. Anyone can choose a point of view, read books to support that particular view, look at the world and everything in it with that specific colour of sunglasses, discuss your beliefs of choice with people who cherish those same beliefs, et voila, there you have it: what you believe must be true! This way there are endless possibilities.
I liked those Conversation With God books a while, because they seemed so all-encompassing. And knowing stuff was my most satisfying addiction when fulfilled. But any point of view could become true if you search for evidence to support it long enough. And some logic would be nice, I like logical stuff. This journey has always seemed the most logical thing to do for me. Becoming less false just seems like a logical thing to do right? But the journey itself is still inside the dream, inside the Universe of False. So that’s weird. That seems weird to me, as if it’s just another dream, that journey. And maybe it is, since the underlying reality is Truth and anything elaborate, constructed, made up is… well, made up.
Still, this seems the only sane thing to do, although the ‘prize’ at the ‘finish line’ doesn’t seem very desirable. I want it. I want it so badly. I must have wanted it always, why else would my life have taken these roads? It led me to the perfect circumstances, even though I (ego) would like to be more comfortable and temporarily rent a small cottage by the sea for example, with nothing else to do but write and walk and burn.
This will have to do, but I have to take care and not get distracted for such long periods of time anymore; when on a roll, I should keep rolling, no gathering of moss et cetera. Family stuff… tricky stuff. Sister and her kids, very, very tricky. It’s easy to let my mind wander, worrying seems to be my ego’s biggest, easiest way to divert my attention, to direct my focus elsewhere. Don’t let it happen! You’re no good to them anyway in this state! Give them a moment and return, to your real work. This is your life now, everything has led you here.
One half of me Knows this; I was born to do this, nothing else will ever satisfy me, not for long. I’ll always be looking for the next thing more real, the less false.
Just now my Ex sent me a text-message and I responded and that was it, just a minute, even though he’s in a real bad state (aren’t we all?). That’s good. Focus. I’d like to say I will force myself to write two times a day, but that’s also my red button: having to do stuff, so I don’t know if that’s going to work. I will keep the focus and go on burning in my mind, it’s not something that happens only while writing, but also while reading (the right stuff, which at this point is Jed’s S.I.E.), and walking.
Right. The other half of me doesn’t comprehend what’s going on, it still doesn’t after all these years, that’s the part that feels asleep, like it goes through life dozing, that’s the fuzzy part, always just that little bit fogged up, just enough not to put my foot on the gas pedal. Just enough to shroud that sense of urgency in a fine mist. Dreaming of men, romances, heroic feats, martyrdom, kids, fame, riches, safety. Going round in circles, using the mind as a pleasurable pastime. I’m self medicating with those dreams, aren’t I?
Proud not to use any drugs or drink any alcohol because it makes me foggy, which is a waste of time since I can’t use my deductive powers, yet I dream and dream and fantasize a hundred miles an hour. If that’s not effectively keeping me in a half sleep I don’t know what is. I need to wake up in order to start Waking Up. Even though this could be just another way of viewing the world, this could be my delusion. My special brand of decorating the world to my liking. Even if it is My Special Brand of Illusion, it’s still the most likely brand to get me anywhere that’s not here. I hope, I so desperately hope. It must. There’s nothing else, my life has already been tailored to this exact purpose. When the dozy part of me wasn’t looking, the know-it-all intuitive part of me shut off all other exit ramps. Now I’m headed towards the part of the free-way that ends right smack up against a wall or onto a ramp which sends me flying through the air into Jed knows what. (Or onto platform 9 ¾, haha!) For better or for worse. I’m going to die. It’s the only way, there’s nothing else for me.
I have to keep writing in English, if my family read this they’ll have me committed and even though a nice padded room might be very conducive to writing and thinking and burning, any kind of medication might not. No fog, no doze. I might have to get that tattoo.
As a young girl I was angry and surprised to see what people could do and get away with, I wanted to see them punished in some way, it was much later when I started to realize that the way they were living their lives was their ‘punishment’. Direct cause and effect.
Now I don’t know what is true anymore. Anyone can choose a point of view, read books to support that particular view, look at the world and everything in it with that specific colour of sunglasses, discuss your beliefs of choice with people who cherish those same beliefs, et voila, there you have it: what you believe must be true! This way there are endless possibilities.
I liked those Conversation With God books a while, because they seemed so all-encompassing. And knowing stuff was my most satisfying addiction when fulfilled. But any point of view could become true if you search for evidence to support it long enough. And some logic would be nice, I like logical stuff. This journey has always seemed the most logical thing to do for me. Becoming less false just seems like a logical thing to do right? But the journey itself is still inside the dream, inside the Universe of False. So that’s weird. That seems weird to me, as if it’s just another dream, that journey. And maybe it is, since the underlying reality is Truth and anything elaborate, constructed, made up is… well, made up.
Still, this seems the only sane thing to do, although the ‘prize’ at the ‘finish line’ doesn’t seem very desirable. I want it. I want it so badly. I must have wanted it always, why else would my life have taken these roads? It led me to the perfect circumstances, even though I (ego) would like to be more comfortable and temporarily rent a small cottage by the sea for example, with nothing else to do but write and walk and burn.
This will have to do, but I have to take care and not get distracted for such long periods of time anymore; when on a roll, I should keep rolling, no gathering of moss et cetera. Family stuff… tricky stuff. Sister and her kids, very, very tricky. It’s easy to let my mind wander, worrying seems to be my ego’s biggest, easiest way to divert my attention, to direct my focus elsewhere. Don’t let it happen! You’re no good to them anyway in this state! Give them a moment and return, to your real work. This is your life now, everything has led you here.
One half of me Knows this; I was born to do this, nothing else will ever satisfy me, not for long. I’ll always be looking for the next thing more real, the less false.
Just now my Ex sent me a text-message and I responded and that was it, just a minute, even though he’s in a real bad state (aren’t we all?). That’s good. Focus. I’d like to say I will force myself to write two times a day, but that’s also my red button: having to do stuff, so I don’t know if that’s going to work. I will keep the focus and go on burning in my mind, it’s not something that happens only while writing, but also while reading (the right stuff, which at this point is Jed’s S.I.E.), and walking.
Right. The other half of me doesn’t comprehend what’s going on, it still doesn’t after all these years, that’s the part that feels asleep, like it goes through life dozing, that’s the fuzzy part, always just that little bit fogged up, just enough not to put my foot on the gas pedal. Just enough to shroud that sense of urgency in a fine mist. Dreaming of men, romances, heroic feats, martyrdom, kids, fame, riches, safety. Going round in circles, using the mind as a pleasurable pastime. I’m self medicating with those dreams, aren’t I?
Proud not to use any drugs or drink any alcohol because it makes me foggy, which is a waste of time since I can’t use my deductive powers, yet I dream and dream and fantasize a hundred miles an hour. If that’s not effectively keeping me in a half sleep I don’t know what is. I need to wake up in order to start Waking Up. Even though this could be just another way of viewing the world, this could be my delusion. My special brand of decorating the world to my liking. Even if it is My Special Brand of Illusion, it’s still the most likely brand to get me anywhere that’s not here. I hope, I so desperately hope. It must. There’s nothing else, my life has already been tailored to this exact purpose. When the dozy part of me wasn’t looking, the know-it-all intuitive part of me shut off all other exit ramps. Now I’m headed towards the part of the free-way that ends right smack up against a wall or onto a ramp which sends me flying through the air into Jed knows what. (Or onto platform 9 ¾, haha!) For better or for worse. I’m going to die. It’s the only way, there’s nothing else for me.
I have to keep writing in English, if my family read this they’ll have me committed and even though a nice padded room might be very conducive to writing and thinking and burning, any kind of medication might not. No fog, no doze. I might have to get that tattoo.
posted by M. at 4:15 PM
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