Thickheaded Control-Freak

A wrongdoer manipulated my life, like an abuser experimenting with a youngster.  He turned me into a wild animal.  I’m the product of someone’s playful mischief.  Aren’t we all?

My body is a defective vessel — a vehicle which will expire.  Something or hopefully someone will come out of it alive.  A different dummy shall step out of it and face a new reality.

But right now, what am I to do?  Be gloomy?  How can I not be.  I’m this weird creature, controlled by even weirder ones.  There is no way out.  Or is there?  I must wait for the metamorphosis to occur.  I wish the process would accelerate.  Is suicide the answer?

Is killing my body unnatural?  So many do it.  Has it become the norm yet?  We all do it gradually.  Life does it naturally.  I can make myself sick physically.  It’s easy.  But I stubbornly keep my body healthy.  Why?  Maybe because it hurts when I don’t.

But now my soul hurts.  Is it better to have a hurting spirit?  Having to drag this body along is painful.  And when it dies, what kind of body will I be given?  Who will decide?  Maybe I will be able to choose.  My angel said he could shapeshift.  Wow!

I can’t wait to have a shapeshifting body.

My dominant plays god.  That’s what he does.  My evolution would happen naturally if only he would let it be.  But he wants to play divinity.  Prick.  And I’m stuck under his authority for a while.  Like I have a say in what I let my children do.  But kids grow, and sooner or later we lose our authority over them.  It’s a liberation process.  How long will this go on regarding this Daemon?  Does it depend on me or on him?

I am enduring but not so patient.  Let go of me, bitch!

So I ended up here, in this environment.  But still, he has a hold on me.

Let go already, thickheaded control-freak!

I Will Fly

I’ll die.
I’ll die too.
I’ll die to you.
I’ll die to you all.
I’ll die to you, all-mighty.
I’ll die to you, all-mighty god.
I’ll die to you, all-mighty goddamned.
I’ll die to you, all-mighty goddamn society.

Die5

I’ll fly to you, all-mighty goddamn society.
I’ll fly to you, all-mighty goddamned.
I’ll fly to you, all-mighty god.
I’ll fly to you, all-mighty.
I’ll fly to you all.
I’ll fly to you.
I’ll fly too.
I’ll fly.

I Suck at Friendship

Unsociability6

I ask myself:  Do I have any friends?  Aside from family members and excluding blog followers or followees, do I have any real friends?

The answer is no.

A real friend to me is someone whose presence I value to the point of feeling sad and torn at the thought of their death.  There is no one in my life at the moment who fits this category.  Therefore I must conclude that I have no friends.

I feel ashamed.

How did it come to this?

I know:  marriage.

I spent the last 17 years of my life trying to maintain the friendship I had with my wife, and in the end it failed.  Or maybe it didn’t.  We still talk to each other.  But our relationship doesn’t meet my above definition of “a real friend.”  I don’t feel sad or torn at the thought of her death.

Maybe there’s something wrong with my definition.  Is it too extreme?  Is it normal to have become so unattached to people?  Maybe it comes with age.  I don’t know, I’ve never been this old before.  I am older than I have ever been and my life came with no instructions manual.  So I’m not sure of anything.

I wonder if there is a point in life where it becomes impossible to make real new friends.  It seemed easier when I was young.  But as I get older, it’s even difficult to imagine.  I have so much baggage.  The people my age have so much baggage too.  How could I start a fresh new friendship while carrying so much baggage?

The fact that I’m an introvert does not make the prospect look any brighter either.  Having online friends is probably the best I can hope for.  Who could tolerate my presence face to face?  It would take quite a special person.  I wonder if anyone would really enjoy being close to me.

I’m like the guy in the photo above.  My face is a computer monitor that has been switched off.  It reveals nothing of what is inside.  No data is visible.  It’s just a blank screen.  And I’m so sensitive, it’s like my body is covered with buttons.  Who knows what would happen inside my central processing unit if someone would push one of my buttons.

If I had a plug I would pull it out of the socket.

When Love Lies

Man Crying

My last true love almost obliterated me.

“True” love?
It could not have been true if it almost obliterated you.

Right. But I was convinced that it was true love. I married this love. I gave my life to this love. I gave my time, my efforts, my money, my body and my soul to this love. I gave my everything to this love. I never doubted that this love was not my true love. The result was near-annihilation.

You survived.

Thanks to you.

No, thanks to you!

I was near-dead, there was nothing I could do.

That is not exactly true.

What did I do?

You turned to you.

What do mean you?

Instead of turning to self-destruction, you turned to self-love.

Hmm…

Not everyone accepts self-love.

It took me many years though. Many years of agony. And even with this “self-love,” I am still hurt. I’m damaged. I’m unrecognizable. I’m socially extinguished. I’m dysfunctional. I’m disabled. I’m handicapped. I’m useless. I’m no good. I’m incapable of loving another human being again.

It’s perhaps not as bad as it seems.

Has this “self-love” made me a more loving person? Look at me now. I don’t want to see anyone. I don’t trust humans. I almost hate them. And when I look into the mirror, I see one again. I almost hate myself. This self-love is a paradox. It doesn’t seem real. Sure, I did not kill myself, but there must be more to self-love than subsisting… and waiting… to die, so I can be with you.

You’re writing aren’t you?

All the time.

Then you’re doing something valuable. Everything you write is being recorded. You have no idea the impact that you are having on the universe.

Indeed, I have no idea. Thanks. Your words are encouraging. As always.

Railroad Tracks

tracks

Walking an unknown railroad track
Wishing a train would run me flat
I am repulsive and ugly
Even they avoid hitting me

My father… he’s in paradise
My mother… died rolling the dice
I have no family
This is my destiny

I’m only ten and a half
No one wants my autograph
Who would work on my behalf
Please read the next paragraph

Every night I ask Mary
If she wants to come get me
Tonight on my bed of rock
I’ll ask her to stop the clock

Next they’ll find my body
Cold, wet and cobwebby
But I will be happy
Pretty soon hopefully

Right now I walk the railroad track
Wishing a train would run me flat
I am repugnant and ugly
Even they avoid touching me

Hanging

sg15-10761

I’m not doing anything useful for society right now.  In other words, I am useless.  And aware that I am useless, isolated and depressed.  But there is something good about this that no one can see.

While I am stuck inside this cocoon, I am getting visions of grandeur.  I’m getting ideas of magnificence that have nothing to do with my old life and my dying self.  I don’t know where the hell those impressions are coming from.  They seem to be of a new me who inhabits a new world, somewhere outside of time.

I know, in a way, that I am just like the guy next door who suffers from bipolar disorder.  I’m also like the one I saw on TV who suffers from schizophrenia.  I could swear I hear voices sometimes.  Voices who say things like:  “I am the future you.  Identify with me.”

Exhilarating, isn’t it!  But no one understands.  From the perspective of earthlings, I am sick.  According to them, I should be “out there” enjoying life.  But I have lost all desire to do the things I used to do, the things that used to make me happy.  I no longer get any pleasure out of those activities.

When someone asks me what is the one thing that would make me happy, the first thought that pops into my mind is:  “I wish I was dead.”  But I have learned not to reply this.  So I just smile and then my interlocutor smiles back and says:  “Just do whatever it is that makes you happy…”

So I have thought of killing myself in order to accelerate the process.  But the next part of the sentence is:  “… as long as it doesn’t hurt anyone else.”

Shit.  I have a huge family.  I have a wife.  I have kids.  I know several men who have killed themselves.  Their families still suffer from it today.  So I had to cross this one off of my To Do list.  Still, I realize that I have nonetheless hung myself.  Figuratively speaking.  Like that caterpillar in the picture above.

Society does its best to discourage us from committing suicide, but the mind finds a way.  As if it had been programmed to do so.  The result is what you see in the second phase:  a caterpillar who has hung itself upside down and sealed itself off from the rest of the world.  It WANTS to die.

Doctors, whether physicians or psychiatrists, should know that any human, at one point or another in their life, if mentally sane, will desire to end his life, and that this is not a disease.

So, all I can say is this:  “Thanks for your help, doc.  But you can keep your prescriptions and your pills.  No matter what it says in your books, I know that there is nothing wrong with me.  I am not mentally ill.  I am meta-morphing.”