You Can’t Hide or Run From IT

You think being
bothered by your “friend”
With their demands
and having to deal
with the complex
(or whatever they are)
emotions of another
human beings trials
and tribulations is a
big deal?

well you’ve got another
thing coming when this
gravy train of uninterrupted
Isolation runs out of tracks

You’ve got another
Thing coming

The grown up world
Will eat you the fuck up

Worse yet; there’s
No way of coming to
Terms with it

Reality is all about
Experience first
And then deal with it

Don’t be yourself.
You’re nervous right
Now, thinking about
It. Anxious and filled
With dread.
Don’t be yourself.

Nobody’s going to
Save you.
Nothing’s going to
Stop the encroaching
Sharp objects of life

You’re thinking death.
It’s so much easier
Than everything else
Just be somebody else

Hope as hard as you
Can that you’re even
Capable of being
Anything other than
What you are
What you Have been…
Try or, Face the possibility
Of… Failing life.
Fail life and life will
Eject you.

Operation Be Somebody Else
Because who you are just
Cannot handle it and will
Never be able to handle it.

Commence…

Do, not, be, your, self.

Meta-log

He cut himself up into two disassociations.

His favourite was filled with rage and never let up, she was sharp of tongue and blade, made a bloody mess with her ideas, and took no prisoners

The other created colourful daydreams where he reimagined himself as many protagonists in many worlds

He tried to be himself but it never worked, never felt comfortable or natural, as if he didn’t have a, “Himself”, he could actually “Be”.

Never has he written more prolifically since he started these disassociations

When he rereads the fiction he wrote as “them”, the prose flows more naturally, with great assuredness, a little more depth, greater detachment of the here and now and more intimacy with the fictionality of the work

This voice speaking right now – the second disassociation – is more of a blank mask.
Projecting while observing.
Like an android in control of a camera which hovers around the body.
Or a book writing about the author…

He spits on the time-honoured advice to “Be Yourself”
He has never felt more artistically liberated, being something altogether alien from himself, Disassociative.

Missing Shadows. Nostalgia bites.

Rice is really nice and light on the stomach

I should probably eat more but I don’t wanna

I think there’s a case to be made for neo-Hardboiled modernism in this generation

With the twitter and sparse attention spans

The easier ones content is to consume the more one will consume it (most likely)

I dated someone with Bipolar once

I think about that person often and how things might’ve been different if I knew more about Bipolar then as I do now

But I myself was ignorant of my aspergers and A.D.D

I miss that person; I wish we went for friendship as opposed to relationship

They were admitted into a mental institution several times, but unlike a previous lover who seemed to always be slipping away or we never quite gelled together (another relationship which would have been better left in the friend-zone), with this one I always felt like I could be there for them no matter what

There’s something about being with a person who has their own demons. Real mental shadows that move things around. A unique bond is formed. Aliens amongst their own.

But I was not the grown up I am today and my default reaction to almost anything back then was to jump ship whenever I felt my presence was detrimental to the person I was around (whether perceived or accurate)

Rather than solve.

The funny thing is; once I knew I was an aspie; I embraced that mindset of solution orientation

But sometimes, starting things intimately and trying to revert back to more friendly parameters is impossible, I know it is with me.

So I remember a shadow of that person. Encapsuled in time, in my memory, reimagined in my fiction and art.

In my heart.

Microwave This and That.

Microwave died two days before the new year

Haven’t gotten ’round to replacing it yet

There’s something about using the stove so often which makes eating feel like reaping the rewards of much greater (and more regular since MW died) labour.

I do so much more with the food no as well:

Constantly adding a different spice, making more unusual combinations,
It usually takes ten to fifteen minutes.

A new microwave will eventually sit where the old one still does, but this period has been illuminating; may I be a changed person for the better and not return to older and more lazy routines.

Bon appetite!

Roll on, Roll off… My Transformation into Creative Critic Balloons. Look!.

Dear MF’ing Diary: Exhale…

I am joyfully exhausted.

Painting the apartment up for the last four days has revealed a part of me I would not have discovered while sitting in front of my laptop:

I zone out during simple, directed, and repetitive activity.

And I mean zone-out in that “meditative and metropolitan-zen” sense.

Today I did the last room, and I will miss it, I think I’m going to look into working around such taxing fields (as long as no heavy duty exertion is required [I’m way too skinny for that]).

There’s something ironic about making assumptions about oneself…

I figured my “place” on this spinning globe was toiling away at something cerebral (and that I would find said “zen” in an intellectual space)

But no; it is rather painting where I exhale with a sense of exultation and say: aaah. How relaxing that was, how decluttering (for my a.d.d busy body thoughts), how soothing and reassuring (each spread of paint leads closer to the end and this serves as a drive/encouragement produced by the activity [as opposed to having to pump myself up])

How philosophical (the act of transforming a large space with incremental [and repetitive] action, and that very modification of a physical area changing me as I take the fruits of my labour).
And the sense of achievement maintained as long as the memory of how the place looked before remains fresh in my mind.

And how Existential! (the memory of what the place looked like will invariably wilt away; and soon enough i will acclimatise to the new (which, truth be told, became old soon as the paint dried)…
Questions arise about the concept of new, and the desire for new, and the inner critic in me is sucking on a pacifier I can’t help but feel giddy at the prospect of becoming something I never thought I would just a mere five days ago.

Asperganoid (down), and OUT.

You Digress, I Digress, We All Destress

My room is a sidewalk away from a road, a block away from a pub(slash)bar, right next to a massive tree and (at night) a neighbour to tireless crickets.

With the window open, I can hear the foot steps of every pedestrian strolling to and from their respective night shift jobs (or perhaps a foray with a lover – maybe a spy on a mission or a criminal from a mission).

It gets terribly hot in the summer but I am left with a choice between no sleep or drenching my bed in sweat (the latter wins all the time) although it must be said the older I get the less I do anything “profusely”.

My hearing can be impeccable, particularly when the drone of daylight and day time hubbub subsides and the still of the night rises like a ghostly fog – an ethereal entity which (peculiarly) amplifies all the little noises and agitates all the discreet senses:

I clean my feet (to make them soft) so I can rub them together whilst in bed (such a lovely friction which takes me back to my childhood when I shared a bed with gran’ma and I would rub my feet against hers during the winter to warm mine (which always felt like the feet of a corpse) even to this day my feet are stubbornly cold in the winter)

Funny how the smallest things give rise to often buried memories…

But I digress.

Confessions of a Muteful Hater: Not For Under 18z

Some may describe me as quiet and as one who does not stir up manure no matter the situation or circumstance and they wouldn’t be wrong in their observations as I am for the most part a placid little fucker

But there’s a particularly dark corner of my psyche in which hate and anger glows hot with excited indignation at all things alive or inanimate

Don’t tell me it’s my grandmother’s birthday, don’t ask if “I know how to warm” certain food because the microwave is crocked (I wasn’t born yesteryear)

Don’t make assumptions; don’t tell me you’re “sticking to your own truth” (for fucks sake what the hell does that mean??? Are there two thousand truths and you’re the ring leader of this idiocracy?) – Fuck off.

At times I feel guilt about my private little explosions because their content is so vile they would leave many a anger-therapists in a coma of disbelief

(mind you all of this rage is kept inside); I curse and curse and curse and wish the most vile things would befall those around me and politicians most especially (next to pedo’s and rapists, and general thieves)

I Hate with greater passion than I Love. One could say I love not at all. But oh hate; yes, I can taste it on the tip of my tongue.

When I was cheated on; I imagined things which have burnt a picture in my head to this day about my former lover (although I am without resentment towards the cheater now)
It is, admittedly, a good thing that all of this volcanic ire remains within.

I’d be a vile creature (much like those I despise) were it anywhere else.

[All things considered. I’m a full blown Humanist] ( 😀 )