Life is a Schizophrenic Affair

Turmoil. This is a situation of absolute turmoil. I’d narrate everything, I would narrate but I am not reliable. I’m desperate. That desperation warps the truth I tell more than anything else. Or does it? Does comfort, acceptance, really afford the right perspective. Clarity. There is a price to pay for clarity. I was told that years ago and I’ve hung on to it waiting to find out what it means. Something weak and half dead told me it would be of immense value to me and I listen now to the weak and half dead voices more than to the living and screaming ones because the living and screaming ones have simply become too intense, so I shove them down. If you want to talk to me come with your hands tied. If you come to me as the monster of my consciousness that you might be I will turn my head away and scream an almighty shrill until you leave. They don’t always leave. It’s their role not too, really. So I am often at a a full tilt, in dizziness, a fever pitch, tea kettles blowing out my head behind my eyes. 

Every day is the same. I dream of getting out of here and of not being so sad for once. I take this twisted satisfaction in the fact that my life is darkening though, because otherwise I am just too much like a child and my Asperger’s and my ADD and that shit all show too much. I can bounce around the walls and be that kind of weird faggot or darken and at least have some sort of narrative authority. Dark is like wise if you’re some crooked fucking villain and joy, even though it’s harder and rarer and better for everyone, is just naivety waiting to crash down if you’re the same kind of pessimist. If you can’t beat them become them. Thus I am now not the dark itself because who would I be kidding trying to pretend I have that in me, but the soft bitch who serves it because he is lost. Wormtail cutting off his hand for the dark lord, again, waiting to be fate-raped over my softness. 

Shoutout to the hot strangers I pass on the street with your perfect lives for motivating me to write at all. Shoutout to the beautiful women I can never talk to because now here’s another story. Here’s another delusional man’s confessions. I need to confess to you. Why is that my purpose? I see these beautiful women and I need to confess to them. I need to tell them that it all started the night my mother was assaulted. I wouldn’t have been so fucked up if I hadn’t been so fucked up and now I’m just a fuck up. I need you to be here for my present to meet my past. You are the witness who can ordain coherence over a bunch of puzzle pieces that will not fit together when I push down on them. The ultimate spiritual ideal is to live without any conscious breaks in time. Not requiring narrative, focus, (perspective) anything in any sense that de-channels the purity of steadily moving time. Reality itself as a function of time and the enlightened one as one in love with time and time with him. Here I have these puzzle pieces. How did the past become now, etc? How are the links of a chain seemingly fashioned as one thing now irreconcilable to one another? Why can child and adulthood only face each other like two north magnets and repel? What is in the space between them besides the sawdust of time, scraps of unaccountability, loops that got discarded, forms and scenes that live, die, and revive beside us? (A hatchery of phoenixes, experimenting with time. Time as a child, a baby, learning.)

I don’t belong here I belong in a conservatory or a university pursuing more education but instead I’m wrapped up in this shit, just working in cafes serving coffee looking for that buddhist enlightenment education. I slept and dreamt of joy. I awoke, and I realized life was service. I worked, and behold: service is joy. That kind of education. I want the spiritual depths to be my quiet swimming hole, and I want to breathe under the water. Rolling around like the yin-yang koi as my body takes to naturally symbolizing everything in the universe. Did anyone remember that that is also a function of our forms? The most unreachable thing, the most powerful, too evasive even to believe in most of the time, waiting in hiding to come out and save all of our lives. And me, trying to act like I have some kind of special relationship with this thing. I am no diviner. I do not conduct anything. The powers are as beyond me as they are beyond any other man. I’ve lied, I’ve sinned, I’ve run amok with false accusations about everyone and everything, trying to get the attention of a god as if that wasn’t childish and pathetic. I am childish and pathetic. I lash out I tear people down and I disapprove of them and I am so sensitive about how I look to people. More than I am worried about how I treat them. I am selfish, so selfish so spiteful so full of envy and entitlement so willing to cut down any other person to put myself first. I have watched the purity of my vices turn into disgusting, vile mold and rot. A bad habit that maybe animated something in me, something chilling and poetic, the sad song of a wound is now the disgusting patterns of abuse that emanate like foul breath from the spit dripping mouth of the blind and feral animal. (They are the letter of my banishment written on wet bark with pus and heroin.)