You Just Have To . . .

If someone starts a sentence like this, I don't even want to listen to the rest, no matter how well-meant their intentions are. It betrays such ignorance of another's issues and such a lack of empathy . . . Besides, assuming the other has never even thought of your 'solution' is plainly insulting. What's easy for you, may seem like the tallest of mountains to another.

Lucid Dreams

Many days, lucid dreams are the only thing making my day somewhat tolerable. During such dreams, I can actually still experience happiness, if there is such a thing. At least I feel content, and any problems that arise I am actually able to overcome, because I am generally skilled or powerful in some way, bestowing upon me a sense of pride in my abilities, a welcome change from the daily self-hatred of real life. But, while they provide an amazing experience, they cause the day to start with by far the best part, so it can only get worse after I wake up fully.

In lucid dreams there are infinite possibilities. Often there is some action element, and fighting, but I can also fall in love and experience the girl as if she were real, even though she doesn't have a face. (At least none that I can later remember.) When I wake up I can remember all the feelings I have felt with such intensity that leaves no doubt that they were all real, even though I know every bit of it happened inside my head.

Blank Slate

I wish I could format my brain, erase everything I've ever learned, and lock myself in a windowless room so that I would never know anything but darkness, and fully embrace it as my only friend and my only truth, remaining blissfully unaware of all the horrors of the world.

Oh, how attractive the return to a state of innocence is. And how tragic that each child must learn that their beautiful innocence will get them killed or worse.

What kind of world have we created that the most precious, joy-inspiring thing on earth will be each person's downfall if not treated as if it were a disease . . .

Fear and Hate

I fear fear and I hate hate, but I hate fear more than I fear hate. I own my hate and my fear owns me. I fear love and dare not hope for it, but do not hate it; it is the fear of love that I hate. I fear and hate hope, but do dare hope I will someday soon stop feeling hate and fear through death. I love little but I would love the end of fear and hate and hope and love and life.

I fear any possibly rekindled hope and any other regeneration, because it will make the inevitable fall all the harder. This fear of hope renders moot any and all efforts made by me and others to get me 'better' again. I am already lost. Only the fear of the pain and fear of dying is preventing my death. I fear this is the only fear preventing the loss of all other fears, and I have never hated anything as much.

Prisoner

Not only am I a captive of society;

I am a prisoner of my own body

This is what I have been given

Including the mind, this most hated mind

I seem free, unchained

But even in apparent freedom

I reside in a torture chamber

Me both the tortured and the torturer

My mind: my enemy

Betraying me at every turn

Making me unable to handle anything

Some disappointment, some pressure

You name it, and it will shut me down

Madness

“The truly awful thing in madness is that we sense a total and irrevocable loss of life while we are still living.”

-- Emil Cioran

A Long Agony on the Road to Death

“Whoever has not experienced the awful agony of death, rising and spreading like a surge of blood, like the choking grasp of a snake which provokes terrifying hallucinations, does not know the demonic character of life and the state of inner effervescence from which great transfigurations arise. Such a state of black drunkenness is a necessary prerequisite to understanding why one wishes the immediate end of this world. It’s not the luminous drunkenness of ecstasy, in which paradisal visions conquer you with their splendour and you rise to a purity that sublimates into immateriality, but a mad, dangerous, ruinous, and tormented black drunkenness, in which death appears with the awful seduction and nightmarish snake eyes. To experience such sensations and images means to be so close to the essence of reality that both life and death shed their illusions and attain within you their most dramatic form. An exalted agony combines life and death in a horrible maelstrom: a beastly satanism borrows tears from voluptuousness. Life as a long agony on the road to death is nothing but another manifestation of life’s demoniacal dialectics, in which forms are given birth only to be destroyed.”

-- Emil Cioran

Silence

I keep thinking words are so inadequate that I should never write nor utter one word again. Yet even in their inadequacy they prevent me from thinking even more when expressed on paper – it prevents the words from being stuck inside my head like a swarm of locusts, so I write them down anyway . . . Better would be never to have thoughts ever again. That thought is the only alluring one.

Absolute Listlessness

I feel like I’m ninety years old. Every little thing seems to cost way too much energy: folding a towel, walking a few paces, making some tea . . . Even moving my fingers across the keyboard to form words, and keeping my eyes focused. Writing a few paragraphs without slumping down to the ground is the most active I've been all day. Yay, me . . .

Why do I seem to age dozens of years overnight sometimes? I’m not like this all the time. But when I am, the only thing I want to do is close my tired eyes, collapse and sleep forever, so that I never feel this way again. So listless, so feeble, so drained . . . Half a corpse, stumbling on stupidly, aimlessly. I can think of nothing at all to do that would bring me joy; nothing at all seems appealing. Nothing. It’s like all the world is suddenly coloured a dull grey, making anything and everything uninteresting, and it seems my limbs have turned to lead, dragging me further down with every weak step I take.

Giving Up

Most working days now the thought that crosses my mind every couple of seconds, on average, is Just give up. The work is terrible, undoable. I cannot imagine ever finishing it. A monkey could perhaps work faster than I can now, the monkey probably being in a healthier mental state than I am. Screw intelligence, screw training, screw humanity; if you're crazy, a monkey is probably better than you.

As I try to get my work done, and fail, I feel inferior to monkeys, to birds, to hippos, to otters, to every goddamn creature known to man. I wish I were an otter. A simple life. I'd like to build dams all around, until they are so high no one will ever find me. But I'm a lousy human, with millions of thoughts and emotions vying for attention, and I fail at my work, at everything, and I just sit down against the radiator  in cursed winter, and write some bullshit no one reads, thinking: if only this warmth against my back could be with me forever, it might give me the strength to make it.