Anti-real circuits feed us our delusions. Paranoia is an actuation of the “what ifs” of probability rather than a deterministic present. Time is explored linearly through our set of perceptions, but more successful life interprets a stochastic future, attempting to ensure survival in the majority of outcomes. I feel alone and unhinged in this present.
The engine in my head
Is ring ring ringing
It goes on to, never end
Down it drowns, on each note
The engine in, in my head
Is failing to, find its end
You’re constantly chasing those feelings of nostalgia. Chasing old memories. Chasing things you’ve experienced, and wish you could experience again. Everything you remember gets distorted, with a peachy colored lens. You forget the anxieties, lulls, and bad memories. You only remember the event. Those negative inbetweens are what make you want to kill yourself. Make it all want to end. But you want to feel your hope again. Your high. You revisit it with drugs. It hurts each time. It’s so bittersweet, knowing you get to experience bliss again yet you’ll have to leave. Childhood euphoria. I miss it. I’d like to live for it. I’d like to grow old for it. Have someone I can die for it, euphoria. Completion, bliss, wholeness.
The past month, a lack of writing. The past month, over-motivation. Many projects started with little to no goals. The accomplishment didn’t matter, only the action did. Everything was never enough. The performance was never ending. In a circular manner, it gave me a reason to sleep. It gave me a reason, to think, simply, clearly. If there was to be anxiety, it would be physical. Sweaty, restless, physicality. A curse and a blessing away from the creator’s dread. Living life in the triumph of the moment. Was this broken metronome something I desired? Was it something I detested? Stuck on go, my mind unable to say no.
I wonder, I wonder.
What you’ll do to me.
If I let my mind wander,
When my head goes and ponders,
Then will you curtail me?
Making me happy?
Making me sad?
Sleepy, or tired?
The world haunts me. People haunt me. My own shortcomings haunt me. Is this anxiety? Is this angst? Feeling unsettled outside of my room. Feeling unsettled lying down, doing nothing, being nothing. With enough sleep deprivation these thoughts become voices. But normally, they’re just that. My own thoughts. Internal desires yet to be externalized. Reasons to change. Highly reactive, abrasive reasons to change. Are they reacting to distractions? Anything unpredictable I might regret?
So what is it that I’m supposed to do all day? I mean, I can keep on walking forever. Almost everyone else refuses to walk, they avoid it, they sit, they lounge, they drive. So who’s psychotic. The energy conservationists or akathisia.
My thoughts hectic, my grammar failing. Terseness is prized. The creator is not terse. The creator babbles. Wants become empty words. Devoid of meaning. Unique writing is perhaps valued by my friends. My peers. My influences. Terseness with broken verbosity. A mirage in the desert, wavering when you draw near to any meaning. There is no intrinsic meaning. Only performance. My abstractions.
here with the sunshine,
in my ears.
When we’re children, there’s a certain simplicity to our thinking. We act honest to our desires. We disregard costs, efforts, alternate opportunities. We only want. We only desire. This is a purity of thought, as all impulses can be reductionally viewed as desire.
A sedating psychedelic. I always wanted this. Now I have it. It’s good. People and the world haunt me less. I can sleep forever. Nothing matters. Everything turns to dust anyways. As long as you’re happy with the decay. It doesn’t matter.
Stress. By its nature, it drives you to eliminate it. Usually when we can’t, it is terminal. Haunting us until we die. Inducing temporary stress, is uniquely a higher order disorder. Jobs, military, prisons, psych wards. Stress inducers we are coerced into. When you can’t escape it, then the neuroticism sets in.
The world is an endless performance of roles. We are stuck in an unbreaking cycle of life and death. Life is intrinsically meaningless. We are intrinsically meaningless. There is no success. There is no failure. Only reproduction. Only iteration.
The world is schizophrenic madness. Lives are brutally short. Cut even shorter often by your own doing. Other’s doing. Neuroticism is rampant. It’s to be expected. People just find escape. Delusion.
Psychosis. Is never ending. Sometimes better, sometimes worse. It makes everything feel intrinsically wrong. It breeds confusion. Anxiety. When it’s worse, it warps reality through your senses. When it’s better, it still haunts you, ever present. Your thoughts are racing, scrambled. You can attach to something, and it becomes your raison d’etre. Then it ends. Then you lose everything. Mentally. You had already lost yourself in it. Having become consumed by it. You neglected your own thoughts and detachment. Now your thoughts are gone.
Sometimes, I’m bored. Times when I can do anything. Other times, I waste my free time doing nothing, somehow feeling content. If I’m bored by all my normal activities, are there subconscious desires gnawing at me? Desires I long ago thought hopeless, and discarded?
I’ve tasted the Southern air.
It was a disgusting, foul soup.
Thick to where you would choke on it.
I did in fact, choke that night,
Choke and retch, like a whore.
Gnosticism’s Monad reminds me much of the big bang, an infinite force of light, energy, and cosmic matter. Though for what purpose, a lot of cultures have the concept of a serpent eating itself. Infinity creating infinity. Why were these particular laws chosen for this universe?
Video games are objectively worse than drugs. Do your kids a favor, unplug the router, sell it to the crackhead next door, and just give them that quarter gram. They’ll be better off with it than either your shit parenting, or the online tranny pedos that groom them.
Now I miss you,
And I want to
Lay down my cock
On top of your face.
I just want to
Have you feel it again.
I was in trouble and I needed a fix. I wasn’t feeling well, and I was horny, so I decided to fuck my dog. After about 15 minutes of sitting in front of my computer, I started to feel a little nervous about what I was about to do. It was a long time before I came, and I don’t know how I did it. The first thing I noticed was that my dog, Mr. T, was panting. He had been standing next to my computer for a couple of hours. I decided to get him to lie down and have a nap for a couple of hours. I made sure he was comfortable, and took out a pair of old pajamas that I found in my basement. I lay on the bed next to him, and started to undress. Mr. T’s fur was so soft and smooth, and he smelled so good, I was dying to get in his mouth. I wanted to make sure he was completely naked before I took him in my mouth.
You can’t break a rifle, you just don’t have the muscles for it. You can’t break a rifle, you just don’t have the muscles for it. You can’t break a rifle, you just don’t have the muscles for it. I’m sure I could break my first Mosin by dropping it onto concrete. If I had the right muscles I could break a rifle in an instant. I wish I had better legs, I have better calves, but I could break it in the blink of an eye.
I feel like I’ve cut my working memory in half. Especially when doing coding practices. Or have I always been this much of a brainlet? Brains can remember events with relative clarity, but exactly what was being thought of, almost always gets forgotten. It’s as if your working thoughts inhabit the same space as dreams. Your thoughts, reasonings, and feelings are ephemeral and usually lost forever.
Ah, I wonder how this works.
You’ll find this post in your
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jekyll serve, which launches a web server and auto-regenerates your site when a file is updated.