In the past few months or more, I haven’t had the time, nor mental space, nor attitude or inclination to voice my thoughts anywhere, even barely amongst friends. Too many dumb, mundane responsibilities met with acute to mild alcoholism, depression masked as anger, and corroborated, undiagnosed health issues — like a bad spider bite becoming almost a staph infection, but literally just barely scraping by type shit.
I have found myself devoid of motivation to actually focus on my own aspirations, because I sacrifice what I can and whatever I have to work with for some kind of “job”, to scrape by with more than a wound. Scrape is an understatement, not to be melodramatic. That is just the associated risk of living under any kind of hierarchy or imposed social order; there is always someone consecutively over or under you. I want to say this: being pissed off does feel better and more productive than being a sad [expletive]. (The following sentence has been removed for using hate speech casually.)
There are times when — all I wanted to say, without getting too vulgar — guess it is too late for that — is that, well… Fuck… All of this banter is strictly unnecessary. A sign of character is remaining quiet during hardships, and only speaking from a place of hard-earned refinement that can be objectively judged based on what society ranks higher on a disciplinary scale. Fuck that shit, man. So tired of other people and their preconceived judgments. It is only fair to give anyone space to reflect; the worst punishment of all is self-consciousness; it can make someone a God or send someone to Hell. Karma is, contrary to common notion and sentiment, a necessary evil; for it perpetuates an infinite regress of meeting greater evils with greater goods on a seesaw of ironic unfairness; too much of anything is a bad thing; so why have an absurd amount of good or bad in either aspect; too much good that is a greater good is not such a good thing; the good should remain good and bad, by default, in any measure of badness, bad. You could say that, likewise, with light and darkness, there are different measurements of it; but how much an object or environment is illuminated doesn’t affect its moral quality. The emotional, ontological fact of sensing things/phenomena, etc., as either good or bad, is a burden of self-consciousness. With this perspective laid out, I suppose this makes something conceptual like self-consciousness a bad thing. Self-consciousness, I believe, endears within itself an eternal, nagging, negative quality. Ontologically speaking, if you can suspend your critical eye and brain, and shit, well… Self-consciousness itself has to be projected outward in such a way as to capture things it perceives as inferior to reflect opposite into itself and, thus, constitute a reparation of sorts as to heal and grow and change and adapt and survive and develop, unilaterally, defense mechanisms against the aforementioned things that are sensed as bad, hostile, degenerate, evil, ugly, etc., etc. Including this. Including you or whoever reading this and deciding better of it or something about it.
So, dismiss this for what it is, and live happily ever after — being glad you didn’t waste the time or conscious effort to engage with this barrage of thoughts. Good for fucking you. Not that I did or will. For whom this may concern, as if there is a particular individual supposed to relate to this — no. This isn’t even for me. This is actually… A futile attempt of processing my failing brain and deteriorating health. Of fighting a fight too many fights. I have died numerous times in alternate universes, but yet to have figured out whether this is still the actual universe. I don’t know. There is way too much to tell, and not enough time. I have problems in my life that I am dealing with, at the cost of my future health. Addiction? Sure. A flame that lights forward my path? I can appreciate the light. An allergic reaction to other people en masse and anyone who isn’t immediately determined as a positive influence on my personal, private life and secret wishes?
Oh, but why have secret wishes. That isn’t even a question. Of course anyone has dark thoughts. You can see someone who is living the objectively reasoned perfect ideal life, but maybe that person secretly wishes she could drive 100mph down a dead end and disappear without another life-sentence and escape this fucking cycle of reincarnation. My secret is not a secret. I don’t like karma and judgment and morality. I like freedom and authenticity and keeping what good remains sacred, and protecting that at any cost. I would say, then, out of fear of growing old or possibly dying a miserable death tomorrow, that if I had one thing to say, out of everything I have been through, a lot of which I wish not to remember, is that, well… The person who is a judge over someone else’s life is trying to play the grim reaper. I couldn’t hate someone enough to deprive them of their existential freedom. A quick death would be better than a rotting personal identity stuck inside a prison; for what I mean is, again, that self-consciousness is the ultimate judge of eternity. It will manifest into alternate reincarnations of your personal experience. That is a frightening thought.
Believe it or not, there is actually a moral sentiment here. Be good in moderation and be bad rarely. Moderation wins over rarity. Manifest a life in which bad things happen rarely, and the good things flow with expected moderation. Don’t mind my language. I have to air out some foul-mouthed images of demons sticking out their tongues and forking a mufflebat into a blue moon horizon. No. I don’t [beep] care anymore. There was something else I hoped to write about. Something about getting old and realizing how much more apathetic young people seem in relation to your old age. (Sorry for switching suddenly to a 2nd person narration.) I guess similarly the seesaw is in even flow. When I was young, I was pretty fucking apathetic about old people. Maybe I’ll see the opposite spectrum of that. Whatever. Take it easy, assholes.