People will kill you over time, and how they’ll kill you is with tiny, harmless phrases, like: ‘be realistic.’ ~Dylan Moran
*Image Credit (artwork used with permission through CC license)–
“Eye of Isis–Champagne Supernova” by NekoJunction
Rain for 3 days changes one’s countenance. What one could have begun in high spirits after the middle of the second day (and certainly after sleeping two nights in the damp) one’s spirit have plummeted and take to finding any small not-even-an-imperfection worth bickering over. The bickering is not the humdrums, though; it is the sulking that can drive one mad.
I try not to sulk, although, I admit to becoming rather pensive and confused over otherwise simple matters. This is the effect rain, cold, and damp have over me. It is why I prefer the sunshine to any other weather because I love to be out of doors. To frolic with little clothing, bare feet, flowing hair, the sun warms skin burning in the ultraviolet, vitamin D chemical reaction (ah, but we are such waveforms, our lives the modulation of frequency), grass and soft dirt beneath the soles of my feet. The soles of my feet softened by earth rather than blistered and calloused by cotton and leather imprisonment—how I hate socks and shoes—skin perspiring and pores breathing oxygen high; there is nothing like the sun and its reaction upon me. I prefer the sun, despite knowing its illusion. I prefer the reaction of, the chemistry of it all.
How it affects my form, the same as the animals and the flowers and the earth, all but the buildings and pavement, which reject the sun, irradiates it back into the atmosphere like the hell it is. “Pollution” of excess heat, no absorption just toxic waste. I abhor that my chosen avoidance of neurotypicals would force me to dwell in the rain or snow just so they will not follow. But I am sick of the running, I am sick of their false power. They have none! No more or less than I. Why do I behave as if they are my superior, as if they are the determination of my choice?
It seems as if I enact the predestined pre-determined whims of some unseen force always trying to show that I should milk the cow, to benefit from their (neurotypicals’) willed obeisance and their unconsciousness, because I have conscious. But my question always keeps me from this game. Why is that the only game in town available to a conscious being? Why must a conscious being consume the unconscious? Does that not make of me a vampire? Why is it only vampirism that is offered? Is there nothing else other than vampirism or escape? Is this the joke?
I do not think so. I think, no, I intuit that there is something more. That more than 2 exists. How can choosing from only 2 promise freedom? Was I not then forced to choose? What freedom holds there within? Would not freedom arise from presentation of any number? Or from the fields and folds of my imagination? What of this 2?! Who made it up?
And this idea of happiness: why does it only arise from either of the two? What is this happiness? What probable unfulfilled promise is this? Who are the parties of this contract? Who is selling this dream? The same misery supposedly arising from the either end of the two? Who invented this will, and why should I borrow it? Why should I trade for naught? This is what I cannot comprehend about it.
I would rather live outside the 2 and the guise of the neurotypicals, forgo such commercials and happiness and misery and, live instead until I die doing as I will, always expanding, always genesis. What wrong comes from this? What expectations?
I have no expectation, great or small. I was once asked did I have expectations. I said I had none, why would I? How could I? I wait in the moment until another moment arrives, until then I have no idea what should transpire once there, and I have no judgment afterward; for every moment is fleeting. For this, I am called naïve. I do not know why really. I am also called autistic, I do not know why really. I have heard the definitions of such accusations and still do not understand. The terms are always rudimentary to me, as easily applicable to genius or wisdom as naïve or autism. Does that not depend only upon the beholder? As I have no such estimations of my own. I do not know why, yet, it seems that neurotypicals do have some kind of expectations of me, that pop quizzes are always laid before me that I inevitably fail. But my failure is not from lack of study, only from a differing version of perception.
It is if I am not expected to have ways of seeing unique to how I am, but must circle the correct answer on the test before I am permitted worthy enough to pass the next level. Will I never graduate from school?!
I do not want schooling; see I dropped out of schooling (although, I possess both high school diploma and college degree, but these pedigrees are not what I mean). I will take my chances at autodidactic, thank you. I do not need a mentor, nor do I need validation in order to be comfortable with what I see and think. I do not care if no one believes anything I say or if no one cares about what I say. I am not in pursuit of celebrity or guru or other such nonsense. I do not understand why that is difficult for neurotypicals to grasp. I really do not care if neurotypicals and their guises think me stupid, intelligent, pretty, ugly, man, woman, disgraceful, pleasant, love, hate; why would any of that matter?
When I argue with such nonsense it is not the accusation I counter, but the premise presented. The argument is untrue, a contradiction, so I make the mistake of trying to unwind the contradiction, but I lack patience, sanity, and motivation to tarry effectively or very long. . . . because I really do not care, and more it drives me screaming into madness days required from which to recover.
So, the quiet is far more preferable than proof, disproof or thought. I want to live in the woods and the sun, not to avoid certain kinds of people or to escape industrial civilization, but because I wish for quiet . . . so I can think (intuit, i.e., thinking without words). So I can Be (i.e., chaotic stillness). So, I can share true conversation and swat these gnats from my mind.
A job or social security are both just banks to me, a place that deposits money to an account electronically. What difference does the name and architecture make? They are both symbols of bureaucracies, both ships steered by regulation and law, both subjects of the Ancient Ones. Why do I care the guise? Madness beats beneath each mask.
*Image Credits (all artwork used with permission through CC license)–
“Heaven’s Glow” by PapayaPirate
“Lights of the Mind 0007” by agsandrew
“Fractal Stock DG-11012012” by DsyneGrafix
“OWL Fractal” by dzikir
“Fractal Stock 08” by Ox3ArtStock
- A SchizoAffective Existence (nikotheorb.wordpress.com)
- Neurotypical | POV | PBS (pluk.mt.typepad.com)
- Very Typical of the Neurotypical (vrushalimahadik.wordpress.com)
- 3 Creative Lessons From The Amateurs, Rebels And Dreamers Of Outsider Subcultures (fastcocreate.com)
- Stims and my Day (neurotypicalsneednotapply.wordpress.com)
“Have you ever considered any real freedoms? Freedoms from the opinion of others? Even the opinions of yourself?…” ( Colonel Kurtz – Marlon Brando from the film Apocalypse Now )
*Image Credit (work used with permission through CC license)–
“Apocalypse Now – Kurtz” by Sergio Bertolini
“Murder is illegal, but you take a picture of someone committing the act of murder they put you on the cover of Newsweek . . .what is more obscene: sex or war?” ~Larry Flynt
It is illegal for women to go topless in most cities, yet you can buy a magazine of a woman without her top on at any 7-11 store. So, you can sell breasts, but you cannot wear breasts, in America. ~Violet Rose
*Image Credit (work used with permission through CC license)–
“Yvonne” by IvanClow
It is so easy it seems for my mind to be wrecked, thereby, wrecking perhaps an entire day, or an indeterminate number of hours of long, prolonged moments trying to piece my mind together. And people (the egos of Society) always say I am gaming or manipulating or faking or stupid or some other such nonsense to explain away the means in which my mind attempts to recover from its shattered state.
I would rather not have this happen; I would rather not be affected at any moment, like being stalked by a monster wearing your own face. Like being stalked by your best friend, whom only a second ago was still your best friend and not the lumbering, snarling, shrieking, screeching ogre stalking you. Knowing where all your favorite hiding spots are; using every secret shared; every years-discovered nuance; every shift, pitch and frequency of your voice; knowing with precision every line of your face and using that knowledge as weapons against you. Because it is your own mind that stalks, at any moment turning against you. Turning in on you, twisting and distorting an already upside down world, like an inverted stream of consciousness. A psychic whisperer so can use truth like lies.
A psychotic episode comes on like a holocaust, save there is no warning, no foreshadowing, no skepticism, no ‘wondering If’ before hand, nothing to have taken heed. Just at one second, friend, and the very next before the clock ticks completely over, monster. And it is worse when the break must be kept quiet else it may disturb others (egos in society) and cause further problems, which feeds back in on the break, pushing the mind farther towards the cliff. Suicidal ideations may be pondered and masticated in the mind, but the actual decision comes in an impulse, an instant. Because no one knows where the edge of the cliff is, so one does not know at which point one will fall, as such, suicide is an accidental decision. “It” just becomes too much and there is a knife nearby so you pick that up and rake it across your throat, without thought, without feeling other than desperation as if you are locked inside a 5 dimensional tessellated Schrödinger box. You just want. It. To. Stop. You want your mind to stop.
The misconception is that there are racing thoughts and voices forcing and compelling you. This is a bit of an oversimplification. There are no thoughts; thoughts at that point are not raw enough to embody such pain. Words cannot contain such concepts of horror. The abstraction of that kind of state of mind tessellates fractals, like a code you cannot crack, because it multiplies exponentially a new number to code with each attempt at cracking it. As if a hacker were trying to crack a password, but with each attack, the password randomly changed and used the hacker’s effort as its algorithm. Like tessellating a fractal into splitting dimensions. So, thought, the idea is like a joke. Thought could not possibly exist in this level of hell. Others assume there are only basic emotions, limbic system responses, fight or flight. This is another misconception. We are talking about a unique, personal, intimate, sensual, perfect, precise, tailored mental hell that is boundless and that changes and evolves faster than any “cure” or attempt to heal the gaping wound that SHINES its pain is so clean and perfect, like the most priceless of diamonds. We are talking about a spectrum of emotions. If you should see one registered on the face, then THAT is an external sign of an emergency, because that means that the internal hell is leaking out to the external, amalgamated reality, and that means the edge is near.
I wish I were at a place such that when these moments strike me I can immediately start making a song, like capturing its photography, like freezing light. Sometimes, that helps to get out the daemon. But when such avenues are ripped from you for reasons of social aptitude, it only pushes the edge closer. It only makes you wish for the edge. To need it, want it, love it. So much so that death becomes like a private joke within you. Only the laughter never ends.
No, not so much a spectrum of emotions, but a prism, so many occurring simultaneously that you cannot name them all. That you cannot possibly identify them, they are so subtle, so loud. To say that one is “sad” or “depressed” in this state is not only synonymous with sacrilege (in its wrongness) but also absurd to think that it was that easily named, that easily quantified. Madness has no hold here. Madness has come and fled before something far superior and far, far more terrifying. Satan has had his fill, Satan flees in terror, and this is Satan’s hell. His horror turned to reflect his un-ego.
That is what it is like to be in the throes of a psychotic episode.
*Source FullPunch.com “25 Awesome Thoughts”
I became vividly aware of the fact that what I call shapes, colors, and textures in the outside world are also states of my nervous system, that is, of me. In knowing them I also know myself. But the strange part of this apparent sensation of my own senses was that I did not appear to be inspecting them from outside or from a distance, as if they were objects. I can only say that the awareness of grain or structure in the senses seemed to be awareness of awareness, of myself from inside myself. Because of this, it followed that the distance or separation between myself and my senses, on the one hand, and the external world, on the other, seemed to disappear. I was no longer a detached observer, a little man inside my own head, having sensations. I was the sensations, so much so that there was nothing left of me, the observing ego, except the series of sensations which happened – not to me, but just happened – moment by moment, one after another.
To become the sensations, as distinct from having them, engenders the most astonishing sense of freedom and release. For it implies that experience is not something in which one is trapped or by which one is pushed around, or against which one must fight. The conventional duality of subject and object, knower and known, feeler and feeling, is changed into a polarity: the knower and the known become the poles, terms, or phases of a single event which happens, not to me or from me, but to itself.*