There are good things in my life at the moment it has to be said, but then again in my experience 'good' equates to feelings of intense insecurity. I refuse to allow myself to decline into some self-indulgent, misery-ridden prose as in my previous entry but I cannot deny my absolute pessimism. Natural is it not, for one to fear subsequent tragedy after every triumph when thus far it consistently appears to be the formula of events? I am incapable of accepting anything good-natured given the inevitability of subsequent disappointment.
Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet...
...Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.
So goes Heaney's poem 'Blackberry Picking', a verse singing of bittersweet childhood memories. Nature dictates that everything born must ultimately die - are you telling me that this evolutionary practice should not be perceived as a reason for distress? It's not even physical death itself that bothers me. It's the in-between: the mortality of pleasure versus the permanence of suffering; the transience of hope versus the prevalence of fear; the short-lived nature of joy versus the misery which faithfully follows. Believe me, I resent myself immensely for being able to think in such a way, for in light of my inclination to take everything to the extreme, if I can I must; if I cannot I will not at all. In essence therefore, my default mentality is one that sees too much, knows too much - beholder of the dire and excruciatingly profound I cannot stop contemplating all this pain. Sometimes it gets to the point that I absorb so much grief that there is physically no vacancy for consideration of positivity in the heavy-laden vessel within my skull, nor in that throbbing organ burdened with such severity at times its wrecked convulsions may shake the surrounding cathedral of bone. It takes great skill to forget or at least ignore; I am yet to accomplish it.
Time, experience and admittedly the wisdom of my highly quotable mother tell me that repeating the same actions will only produce the same results, and it would be foolish to consider otherwise. Therefore, I know it, I truly do: I need to change my thinking. How does one go about such an uncomfortable project? How can I let go of what has been and gone? How can I detach myself from the anguish of the present? And how can I overcome such an intense apprehension of the future?
I hate the things that have happened to me and those I love. I've been hurt, and gravely hurt by misfortune and abuse - yet I take the anger and sorrow unto myself as oppose to my oppressors, or the unkind forces responsible. The horror of the traumas I have suffered can come in unexpected seismic waves inducing nausea and panic; though, forgiving any impression of self-pity I may have inadvertently just made, it has to be said that it's the suffering of others that has caused greater devastation. It truly sickens me to think of the indescribable distress which I have witnessed and which may well continue to persist indefinitely. Violation.
I neither understand the justice of the present, for the reasons most recently expressed. It seems never-ending. The present is, quite plainly, a product of what has been - so if unalterable inflictions have occurred in the past, then their contemporary embodiment is unlikely to be anything different. Where is the peripetia? At which point do circumstances change and joy suddenly and miraculously arise? What transitional landmark is there to indicate the difference between our histories and the immediate and do we have any power whatsoever in-between to secure a comfortable reality? The enigma of it all is utterly terrifying to me, in particular the sense that we are so lost and helpless within it all.
If I do not feel in control of creating the present there is no way I could ever deserve a feeling of security toward the future. In advance none need be disturbed if this narrative were to take on a rather morbid tone - my musings are burrowing deeper and deeper into the dark recesses of my mind and readers are under no obligation to pursue the winding course of this rapidly unravelling thread. Simply, I cannot foresee a distant future for myself sometimes. There has been so much that has already happened, and I can't quite comprehend what's next, where I go from here. I've done too much too young, more than most would experience in their lifetime - surely this roller-coaster of trauma and pain, (but also episodes of extraordinary joy to a point of delirium) cannot continue for years and years to come? No human on earth could endure it. The most logical conclusion to be drawn from this therefore would be that an end would be imminent. Unless the intense cluster of drama settles to a tolerable plateau and I am somehow able to move on from the past and simply live on. This only confounds my terror of what is to come, for I simply cannot imagine how 'living' in the context of everything that has happened is a possibility. I'm not sure I'd want it to be. I don't want to live with what has happened. It's too much to bear. Perhaps that is why I struggle to live at all.
As per usual (ie: always) I have taken this far, far too far. This is why I scare myself. I don't feel the same as everyone else. Superciliousness is the last of my intentions as I attempt to explain the inexplicable so forgive any inadvertent suggestion of such; but I feel like I know and feel too much to function like any other person. Survival doesn't seem compatible with this 'other' psychological dimension I seem to be cursed with - and I do hope that I have adequately portrayed the message that this curious intellectualism or agonizingly-analytical mindset (or whatever term to use to describe my thought processes) is rarely a blessing from the perspective of the individual experiencing it. None of this will make any sense, I am perfectly aware of it, because there is no doubt that my audience will not be companions in this dimension... But it's as though my otherworldly sentiments are holding me back from ever, ever getting better.
It's high time to obliterate this level of consciousness with copious quantities of nicotine. I have over-thought and I'll continue to over-think unless I accept the reality that I have the mind that I do and unless brain transplants for the psychologically unstable become a regular component of clinical practice anytime soon - an opportunity that, though I would love to accept given the torment I am under reminds me a bit too much of the mental 'conditioning' through torture used in Burgess' 'A Clockwork Orange' and therefore would have numerous moral qualms toward - there is little I can do about my situation. Of course it's a shame that it's only socially-acceptable substance use which will ground me, but nothing else can lower the volume on my brain's incessant introspections as plum-flavoured tobacco and blackberry rizlas.
Time, experience and admittedly the wisdom of my highly quotable mother tell me that repeating the same actions will only produce the same results, and it would be foolish to consider otherwise. Therefore, I know it, I truly do: I need to change my thinking. How does one go about such an uncomfortable project? How can I let go of what has been and gone? How can I detach myself from the anguish of the present? And how can I overcome such an intense apprehension of the future?
I hate the things that have happened to me and those I love. I've been hurt, and gravely hurt by misfortune and abuse - yet I take the anger and sorrow unto myself as oppose to my oppressors, or the unkind forces responsible. The horror of the traumas I have suffered can come in unexpected seismic waves inducing nausea and panic; though, forgiving any impression of self-pity I may have inadvertently just made, it has to be said that it's the suffering of others that has caused greater devastation. It truly sickens me to think of the indescribable distress which I have witnessed and which may well continue to persist indefinitely. Violation.
I neither understand the justice of the present, for the reasons most recently expressed. It seems never-ending. The present is, quite plainly, a product of what has been - so if unalterable inflictions have occurred in the past, then their contemporary embodiment is unlikely to be anything different. Where is the peripetia? At which point do circumstances change and joy suddenly and miraculously arise? What transitional landmark is there to indicate the difference between our histories and the immediate and do we have any power whatsoever in-between to secure a comfortable reality? The enigma of it all is utterly terrifying to me, in particular the sense that we are so lost and helpless within it all.
If I do not feel in control of creating the present there is no way I could ever deserve a feeling of security toward the future. In advance none need be disturbed if this narrative were to take on a rather morbid tone - my musings are burrowing deeper and deeper into the dark recesses of my mind and readers are under no obligation to pursue the winding course of this rapidly unravelling thread. Simply, I cannot foresee a distant future for myself sometimes. There has been so much that has already happened, and I can't quite comprehend what's next, where I go from here. I've done too much too young, more than most would experience in their lifetime - surely this roller-coaster of trauma and pain, (but also episodes of extraordinary joy to a point of delirium) cannot continue for years and years to come? No human on earth could endure it. The most logical conclusion to be drawn from this therefore would be that an end would be imminent. Unless the intense cluster of drama settles to a tolerable plateau and I am somehow able to move on from the past and simply live on. This only confounds my terror of what is to come, for I simply cannot imagine how 'living' in the context of everything that has happened is a possibility. I'm not sure I'd want it to be. I don't want to live with what has happened. It's too much to bear. Perhaps that is why I struggle to live at all.
As per usual (ie: always) I have taken this far, far too far. This is why I scare myself. I don't feel the same as everyone else. Superciliousness is the last of my intentions as I attempt to explain the inexplicable so forgive any inadvertent suggestion of such; but I feel like I know and feel too much to function like any other person. Survival doesn't seem compatible with this 'other' psychological dimension I seem to be cursed with - and I do hope that I have adequately portrayed the message that this curious intellectualism or agonizingly-analytical mindset (or whatever term to use to describe my thought processes) is rarely a blessing from the perspective of the individual experiencing it. None of this will make any sense, I am perfectly aware of it, because there is no doubt that my audience will not be companions in this dimension... But it's as though my otherworldly sentiments are holding me back from ever, ever getting better.
It's high time to obliterate this level of consciousness with copious quantities of nicotine. I have over-thought and I'll continue to over-think unless I accept the reality that I have the mind that I do and unless brain transplants for the psychologically unstable become a regular component of clinical practice anytime soon - an opportunity that, though I would love to accept given the torment I am under reminds me a bit too much of the mental 'conditioning' through torture used in Burgess' 'A Clockwork Orange' and therefore would have numerous moral qualms toward - there is little I can do about my situation. Of course it's a shame that it's only socially-acceptable substance use which will ground me, but nothing else can lower the volume on my brain's incessant introspections as plum-flavoured tobacco and blackberry rizlas.
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