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The Second Greatest Failure of Omnipotence
But the fluttering scrips and scraps as the calloused fingers of the Russian advertisers clambering over almost silent posters—their victims' faint, sorrowful sighs wheezing out as their spam-driven detractors hurtle over their quiet pleading to slam another hyperlink into the comments of a completely unrelated post—all but seal the deal for me.
"Is that really phoenix_blade?" you ask. Read that last fucking paragraph. Yeah, it's me, I just graduated from using ten billion commas into hammering the keys for em-dashes. At least I don't abuse semi-colons like I used to. (I still end sentences with prepositions. And still have my way with parenthetical asides; fuck you.)
Look, Livejournal is dead. I see a few of you scrambling around, hammering at the chests of dead accounts in the vain hope of summoning a heartbeat, any sign of life. You...probably aren't going to find any. Most of us have moved on from this place. It's dead, through and through. Invaded by spammers, made redundant by the removal of Facebook's character limits—I posted a 5.5k word short story on there for shits and giggles—LJ is, as you all treat it, a shambling zombie of a time long past. It clings to life, rasping and clawing at the ground as it drags itself along, never knowing respite.
And that is what it's ultimately meant for: respite. We all put our hearts and souls into this shit. I know we did, because if you were one of those banal fuckers that only posted memes and your fucking grocery shopping list, you'd never be fucking reading this. But, unless you only used this site for private entries, a lot of us have moved on. I've moved on. I can't bear to look at my earlier entries. I hate the person I was, as much as he'd probably hate the individual I've become. I'm sure a lot of you feel similar, and a similar amount feel differently. Honestly, it makes little difference to me.
You fucks, you broken, you twisted, you magnificent, beautiful fucking people...when I was broken, you rushed to my aid. When I was depressed and made another plea to shore up my broken confidences, you did so without cynicism. When I was at the top of the world, grinning madly as I knew every impossible goal I had before me was inevitable, you were there to reassure me that I was, in fact, the manic god I deceived myself into being, holding your tongues and allowing me the illusion of joy for just long enough that I could survive. And when those lofty goals collapsed in a hale of dust and noise, leaving me coughing and staring at the broken framework of my life, you didn't judge. You didn't judge me for failing. You just...helped.
Did it do any good?
Well, fuck if I know. I know without you all I'd probably be a pleasantly colored splat at the bottom of a very tall building, a gurgling counterpoint to a screeching mother trying to wipe my blood and entrails off her giggling infant in a stroller on the sidewalk. But, my longevity finding a bit of relief, I find I kind of like the air up here. Think I'll stick around for a while.
I'm...done with Livejournal. I'm going to flick through a few more of the recent entries, see if I see anything relevant, but mostly I'm going to see who's still around. If anyone wants to keep up with me, message me and I'll give you my Facebook info.
If not? No harm done. Thank you all for everything you've done for me. It's so goddamn weird admitting this, considering I never even met most of you, but you were always true friends.
And, even if I've learned to reign in my crazed ranting a bit: Fuck your goddamn LJ-cut.
I've endeavored to reread every last entry I've posted on this journal. This isn't so much because of a self-deprecatory desire to see how much effort I used to put into writing--my wrath isn't nearly so entertaining these days, since I've calmed down and become relatively sane--so much as an amelioration to the perplexity I have towards the person I used to be. I simply do not know the person who wrote this journal.
Or maybe, like most human beings, I didn't learn my lesson the first time; I wish I was still fucking crazy.
Edit: The good news is that I do not wish I was as stupid as I used to be in high school.
Edit 2: The bad news is that I've apparently made this exact same post no fewer than 37 times in my Livejournal career, and I don't remember any of them. Will try to insert more self-referential, deprecatory humor to better differentiate this post from...
...shit. Did that, too.
Edit 3: Dear Jesusfuckingcocaine-a-holic, was I that stupid? Why didn't any of you fucks tell me?
Edit 4: Wait. You people made friends with me? Were you retarded?
Edit 5: Attempts to comment to my past self to repair fatal idiocy have proven ineffective, probably because I lack a sonic screwdriver.
Edit 6: As it turns out, Mike/trippynickel was a hell of a lot smarter than I ever was.
Edit 7: Is it possible to travel back through time and punch the everloving shit out of one's constantly flapping maw even without the aid of a sonic screwdriver? I'm sure assaulting myself in the past would lead to far less half-witted bumbling and confused psychological development than my own unmolested ignorance would.
Edit 8: No! Nooooo!!! Don't tell that girl that you think Korn is interesting and original! Don't do it!
Edit 9: You did it, didn't you? ENJOY THE NEXT 4 YEARS OF HANDICAPPED SOCIABILITY, YOU SHIT-SLURPING RETARD.
Edit 9.5: Your comic idea was pretty good. Too bad you forgot how to draw, LOL NEWB!
Edit 9.5 II: The Sequel Subtitling: Also, does anyone know what my obsession with monkeys on anabolic steroids was about? Fuck if I remember. I think I thought it was funny...
Edit 10: Experiment to reread all of my old LJ posts has been abandoned midway through post #3. Too depressing. Going to go beat the shit out of some high school kids who are wearing black and carrying backpacks with too many books in them in the hopes it will do some good. My guttural screeches of, "Not me! NOT ME!!!" during said injurious beatings will likely not confuse them at all because they will no doubt be as intelligent as I was back--
Also, it appears that, in a bid to appease the grammatically incompetent demographic of people who feel that their intentional bastardization of correct punctuation is an outpouring of their limp-wristed artistic expression, Livejournal has deemed fit to remove the double spaces in between sentences when posting with the HTML editor.
Fix your fucking code, Livejournal. (Unless there's some HTML tag for "leave two spaces in between my motherfucking sentences" of which I'm unaware.)
It is with a dispassionate sort of trepidation that I realize that my various psychological maladies have endeavored, since my ill-fated night with a blitzkrieg of beer and sleeping pills, to manifest psychosomatic symptoms, rather than the comfortably familiar emotional ones.
Truly, throughout the last eight months my fears of a dreaded resurgence of those friendly demons, those old, psychic friends coursing through much-tread neurological pathways, have proven weightless. Instead, I have cataloged a myriad of systemic, though menial, physical perturbations that harried Googling assures me can be ascribed to stress and my new-found, sedentary existence. That is, at least, when they're not symptoms of more serious conditions. Oh, that's another new neurosis of mine: hypochondria.
Occasional bouts of cold limbs. Minor paresthesia. Fatigue. Headaches. Morning stiffness. Difficulty staying asleep for more than a few hours, leading to 12+ hours in bed just trying to get a good night's (and sometime day's) sleep. Constant bloating. Severe loss of appetite; my body no longer "tells" me when I'm hungry, and instead I must remember to eat at various intervals during the day. Abdominal discomfort. Occasional difficulty breathing. Artifacts and oddities with my sight, much like I'd used to get before a migraine but without the ensuing pain. Persistent sinus irritations. There was a one week period several months ago where I had severe difficulty swallowing; it went away, although my esophagus has been very testy since then and wont to spasm especially during periods of stress. Panic attacks. Overly perceptive of my heart beating and of the externally visible aortic palpitation in my abdomen. Stomach pressure. Itchy skin. Chronic light cough (thanks, smoking!). Weird urinary behavior, where it seems like I can't piss at full pressure. Difficulty focusing. Minor aches and pains throughout my body. Constantly coming up blank on the "right" word for a particular situation, leading to a veritable lexicographic genocide of the more obscure parts of my verbiage. (This last one is particularly annoying.) Those seizures I had as a kid? Dead ringers for strokes.
Researching these queer biological tics has proven both a boon and a bane. Google, or as I have rechristened it, "The Affable Dr. Noinsurance For Whiny Fucks Like Me", has with macabre dutifulness pointed out how I may be afflicted with cancer of every flavor, AIDS, MS, MD, tapeworms, aortic aneurysms, neuropathy, etc. For the sake of my own sanity and to avoid any more unsightly panic attacks, I instead keep trying to bludgeon the three most benign causes into my skull: fibromyalgia, stress, and myofascial trigger points. I'm particularly fond of the last one, and can be found at any particular time of day jabbing and poking and massaging the muscular culprit nearest at hand. It makes the most sense in lieu of proper medical tests, which because of my brilliance in abandoning my job in the midst of an economic depression and corollary inability to find gainful employment with medical insurance is the only option I presently have. I was sedentary for months, and felt several shades of "physically normal"; it was only after getting a new lease on life and beginning an exercise routine to counteract my laziness that most of these problems began cropping up, which in turn led to more months of doing nothing out of fear of exacerbating them. Oh, Lord Irony, was I not searingly correct to prostrate myself before your wry omnipotence? You're a cruel God, but a funny one. I really fucking hate you.
To be honest, I'm not sure I like the new me very much. Not as much as the old, completely fucking crazy me. Even if he didn't have any grasp of the concept of life and death, I'd much prefer to own his body over this new, sickly, timorous thing that I own now. The flash of embarrassed revulsion one feels at coughing up a large, gelatinous glob of mucous onto their hand in public before hurriedly wiping it on their coat and hoping no one saw them is indistinguishable from my own towards this new psychological affront. I'm not supposed to be a fucking hypochondriac. That's for asthmatic accountants. Cubicle junkies in passionless, one-sided marriages. Some guy that eats the world's shit for forty years without skipping one apathetic beat on his tinny, empty drum. You know, pussies. Not me.
Anyway, just thought I'd let you know what's up. Just in case I sit on the toilet and pick up a cheap, bland homeowner's magazine to read during my bodily business, and my abdominal aorta explodes violently through my stomach, spraying gallons of blood everywhere while I screech like a woman for five seconds before keeling over and succumbing with my tongue sticking theatrically out one side of my mouth in a pool of my own urine and fecula. It could happen. I have a realistic grasp of the concept of life and death now, remember?
Cowardice became me.
It was slow, at first. Days spent constantly trying to wake up, and feeling instead a deep, vague personal revilement, became months and then years. Despite this, there was always the dull throbbing, a heartbeat miles below the cold fog of my psyche, that kept me pressing onward. I have always been a vagabond in life, in spirit if not in reality, but that ember had always scored hope and purpose into otherwise aimless drifting. I kept my job. I paid off the debts I owed. I became stable. Responsible, even. I persisted. But I never stopped drifting.
In October 2008, I injured my shoulder. Bicep tendonitis, the doctor said. Because it wasn't a workplace injury and was of nebulous origin, I was incapable of receiving workman's comp. I sat out for a month. In spite of the financial hardship, I felt a deep sense of relief.
For months, my personality had slowly begun changing. I have only been particularly talkative during extreme cases of mania or drunkenness; however, where before I was content to listen and speak carefully, meeting eyes clearly, I became completely silent and took to staring deadly into empty space. Coworkers who were once people with whom I could crack a lewd joke became people to be avoided. Occasional post-work social drinking with people I began to think of as friends became hasty retreats back to my apartment, where I would drink vodka alone and stare at blank sheets of paper--pens and markers, with caps still on, were arranged with exacting order that blared frantic disuse any time my eyes would twitch towards them--until I was drunk enough to pass out. I'd wake up, and repeat it again the next day.
Waking became anathema to me. Upon waking came the realization that, as the day before, that familiar dread still stalked the murky bog my mind had become. I took sleeping pills and melatonin supplements--never with the vodka, though--just to stave off the inexorability of consciousness. With waking came a permanent, permeating anxiety that people who knew me might look closely and see my lifeless eyes. I became all too aware of my heart crashing into my ribcage as one would a timer steadily approaching zero, and with it the panic that it would stop and my life would truly be wasted. Even still, I did nothing.
Hence, it was no small relief that I could retreat from life for a bit, with my injury, and just sit free of responsibility doing absolutely nothing. That first month of doing nothing came and went as I sat around atrophying my muscles and waiting for hope, but the deep, sluggish terror remained. As November died, my sister paid December's rent for me, but still I did nothing. On December 10th, I finally received the doctor's note I needed to return to work. I handed the note into management during the day, went home, and slept. I slept through the night I was supposed to work, woke up, took more sleeping pills, and went back to sleep. Upon waking was the anxiety, that icy, vague fear, that I refused to face.
I never returned to work. I was fired. I didn't care. I ran out of money buying alcohol, as I'd sit at home stewing, and staring blankly at a computer screen and trying to forget life. I had already decided. I was just going to wait.
On December 16th, I posted here. I truly had no intention of updating this journal again. I began depersonalizing my sister's emails about that time, also. "Just email me back so I can make sure you're still okay," she'd write. I'd respond with flippant, monosyllabic blurbs. I waited. My father and mother both sent me $50 for Christmas. I stored it away, except to purchase alcohol and smokes.
On December 31st, I woke up at about nine in the morning. I went to the store and bought an 18-pack of cheap beer. At 10:00 AM on December 31st, I started drinking. At 8:30 PM, I ran out of beer, so I went and bought another 12-pack. I drank all of them from between 9:00 PM and midnight. At 12:08 AM, as people were celebrating New Years, I topped off the alcohol with about 30 sleeping pills. I sought death the same way I lived, as a coward. I was petrified of living, but even more horrified at approaching my end head on, so I tried to put myself to sleep before I died. I figured all the alcohol and 900+ mg of sleeping pills would do the trick. After tossing two palms of pills down my throat as casually as one waves to an old friend, I went to bed and waited for sleep.
I was wrong.
I tried to pass out, but despite all the sleeping pills severe chest pain kept me awake and aware. Tachycardia does not make for restful pre-suicide sleep, in case you're curious. I lay in bed for the first six hours waiting for my heart to stop. God knows it was certainly trying to. It would pump with exacerbating strength, seeming to build to a precipitous crescendo, only to stop and suspend me over an abyss that even now fills me with terror. It would pick up again, with lurching weakness after about five seconds of motionlessness, and in fitful arrhythmia when it did. Every time it stopped, the black would press at me in oppressive, silent waves and I could feel my mind creeping inwards. There were times I'd black out completely, only to jerk awake an indeterminate amount of time later and realize I hadn't been breathing.
The breathing was the worst. Ragged, shallow, halting, like the air in my room was trying to drown me. The back of my throat tightened as my lungs trembled uncontrollably with each gasp, all while my mind was screeching at me to just close my eyes and go to sleep.
I started to hallucinate. It was the obligatory "bad acid trip" hallucination you read about in countless books and see in "cautionary tale" movies, where my walls and ceiling started spawning thousands of spiders. I'd occasionally see a black widow on my shoulder skittering around my neck, and others in the corners of my room eating the other spiders, which were long, spindly, small, and yellow. At one point I imagined a lit cigarette into my hand; it was no small irony I was petrified that I'd pass out and drop it, setting my apartment on fire.
I slept off and on the following day, forcibly getting up--my limbs weighed thousands of pounds--to drink water and piss before going back to sleep for another few hours. Psychologically, I didn't feel any better. There was no catharsis, no flash of bright light restoring my will to live, nor my laughter. The spark inside me that I never noticed dying months previously was not miraculously restored. I never thought about trying again, I just accepted that if thirty beers and half a bottle of diphenhydramine didn't kill me then I just had to live. At about 1:00 AM on Jan 2nd, I started suffering chest pain again, and my upper body felt like it was on fire while my legs felt like ice. It was only then that the dull, cancerous paranoia evaporated; it had remained with me even after I 'survived'. In its place was fear. A coward dreads, but a person fears, and I'd had enough of cowering. I called an ambulance.
In the emergency room, hooked to IVs and connected to an EKG that remained normal in spite of the aching pain that remained over my heart, I became tired. I don't know how long I sat propped on that lumpy, uncomfortable bed, but at some point or another my eyes closed, and I think I dozed off. When they opened again, I knew I was alive, and more importantly, I wanted to be alive, craved it. I don't know why it happened then, it just did.
I spent the next four days in the hospital's detox/behavioral health center.
Blood tests came back perfect. Despite the amount of antihistamines, my immune system and my thyroid never skipped a beat. I had muscle spasms, confusion, and very minor amnesia for the first couple of days, but those wore off. In spite of heavy drinking for nearly two months straight--it was either a whole bottle of vodka or a twelve pack of beer a day--my liver tests came back as near-perfect too, only suffering from a bit of malnutrition; one of the first things that go when you enter a severely depressed state is your appetite, so I hadn't been eating much. Truthfully, the only casualty from the last two months of my downward spiral has been my muscular fitness. 3 months ago I hovered between 170-175 lbs, very little of it body fat. One week ago, I weighed 156.
For all intents and purposes, the person who wanted to die on that night may as well have succeeded, because since then I've felt better, psychologically, than I have in close to two years. I almost feel like my old self again, which is a good thing. The world, rather than seeming crushingly oppressive with all of its anxiety-ridden choices, now seems light with opportunity. I still regret that I will die long before I've seen everything this world has to offer, but rather than giving up and deciding that nothing is worth it I am content to live what life I have left and enjoy it for what it's worth. It's sad that I had to nearly die to understand something so simple, but at the same time I stood at the edge of death and felt true Emptiness for the first time. I don't think I will ever confuse my depressed states as "insurmountable" after encountering, in just an infinitesimal dose, the black void I saw right at the edge of my own mortality.
What I did was a mistake, and an infinitely stupid mistake at that, but I can't go through life beating myself up anymore over the things in the past that I no longer have control over. I took my near-death in stride the very first day after escaping it.
You all, however, have some claim on my life, great or small. So, I apologize. I'm sorry.
A little over a year ago, a sad fool once wrote, "When you die, everything becomes the purest white, as the sins of Consciousness and Knowledge are swept clean from your mind and you are granted the same reprieve of quiet innocence that all beings have at birth." However, I have known death intimately. Dying drags your consciousness, knowledge, and sin with you towards the Abyss. Everything important, every moment, idea, and thought of value, every person you love is left behind. Dying is the vanguard of loneliness, the vorpal edge that sunders you from every last experience and person you hold dear before dragging your corpse into the Unknown. Everyone faces their death alone. This is the only revelation to be had when dying: life is the only seed of happiness, of relief, that exists, and only a great fool would discard their own salvation.
I'm still afraid and somehow equally...joyous, but I'll be damned if I remain a coward any more.
That said, forgive me for some Ye Olde Time phoenix_blade nostalgia: I know this post is long, but fuck you and your LJ-cut. You can take my mile-fuckin'-long post on your friend page, and like it.
I also reserve the right to interpret stunned silences and/or scorn as mutual consent to my otherwise untoward sexual advances. You've been warned.
Current Music: "Zarathustra" - London Philharmonic (Comp. Yasunori Mitsuda)
If it wasn't already apparent by now, I've no intention of updating this journal again. Ever.
Have a nice life, goodbye, yadayada.
The lit cigarette in my hand grasped desperately for purchase between my apathetic fingers. My forearms ached from the constant pressure of the slender metal railing supporting them, though I'd only been leaning on it for less than a minute. My friend and roommate Mike stood near me, staring into the same sparsely mountainous horizon as I did. The first tendrils of evening were curling their way around late afternoon as deceptively slowly as the cigarette smoke that danced up between my fingers. In the far distance the first hues of pale yellow-gray were cropping up, but overhead the sky still shouted loudly with its lightning blue vigor and clarity. Vast bluffs of billowing white clouds towered in isolated patches here and there, the sure sign of late night thunderstorms to come. Below, a few of the neighbor's children played in the parking lot on their tricycles. They're young; no more than 8 years old for the eldest.
For a brief second I'm disoriented by this scene. At first glance, it seems like one of the rare few times (too few, in fact) that Mike and I take a step outside to catch the budding Tucson sunset. Contradictions flare conspicuously in this estimation, though, when I note that the weather is warm and fair, perhaps Tucson in early spring, when yesterday even sunny Tucson was a brisk fifty degrees Fahrenheit at this time. The clothing I and the people around me are wearing confirm this fair weather, yet deep down I simply know that it is early spring, and that the yesterday in the shallow Tucson winter was merely a dream.
"So," I started suddenly to interrupt my thoughts, "they say it'll happen here."
"Mmhmm," Mike replied simply. Quiet almost descends.
"Well, there is a spot of good news," I said. "I've decided to quit smoking."
Mike released a soft, bitter chuckle, and after I took my last drag on the Marlboro, I let the cigarette fall 15 feet to the sidewalk below us, my hand flopping ineffectually to the railing again. I meant it. That was my last cigarette ever. After, I pulled a blank on any topic of conversation that may fit the situation. We continued standing on the communal balcony of our apartment complex, staring into the distance, waiting. Below us, the children stopped their vigorous trike riding, appearing to be temporarily infected with the calmness present that afternoon.
We could've been there for seconds, minutes, hours, even days, propped up against that railing, unmoving but seeing straight into our own futures, and I still would have hoped deeply for just a few seconds more, just a few seconds more of this quiet afternoon, and just one more sunset. That was not to be.
At that moment, the deep tranquility of the sky was sundered viciously by a cruelly burning fireshrike that rocketed overhead of us, several thousand feet in the air. The missile spat behind it violent orange-red flames that spun turbulently in the air before their hatred cooled into soot-black plumes of malevolent smoke. The missile itself was cartoonishly large. It was no more a missile than a space shuttle, gargantuan in scale. Its unholy, thunderous wailing waned as we saw it falling greedily upon its its prey, the same spot that Mike and I had been staring at, questioningly, for what could have been our entire lives but was only one or two minutes at most.
"It-" I stutter.
"Yeah," Mike finishes quietly.
There was no transition between the shattered halcyon afternoon and the immediate aftermath of the blast. The bulbous mushroom cloud and the vile bloody sky of a Hell finally realized appeared instantaneously in place of our stark blue and white heavens, as though God had grown sloppy with his creation and merely pasted Apocalyptic clip art into His violent reality to replace our world, our existence. For two seconds this image shimmered on our horizon. Our horizon, our future, turned to ash in a single instant.
This temporary pause was brief, no doubt placed in by our cackling Creator so that we could realize the entirety with which our meek, lowly, human dreams were being violated into the Nether. The blast was powerful, and even at a distance of over a hundred miles my slack, unbelieving feet could feel the nuke raping deeply into Mother Earth, to its very core. My eyes narrowed sorrowfully, pitifully, as far in the distance I saw mountains crumble, and the remaining clouds in the sky dragged into the blast as it approached. Fissures scarred the earth and raced dreadfully fast towards us, their black dagger apexes preceding impossibly the blast wave that should have already ended us. As the atmosphere itself was destroyed, the cloak of the remaining daylight was ripped aside to reveal the countless stars of infinite universes that would never be touched by any man; there shall be no trespasses against the domain of They named Elohim by one so lowly as man. As the blast traveled underground and the fractures expanded, lumps of earth as large as cities and mountains were rolled quickly and heavily into the air in large chunks, and the stars began to fall one by one from the night sky, weeping in loss, before the black-red ceiling of the Abyss and the Blast descended once again.
I looked upon this in silent, calm horror. With increasingly sickening speed, the preternaturally large masses of land moaned heavily into the air before crashing in upon themselves as the explosion traveled beneath us, freeing the Abyss from its constraints to swallow up the world above it. Following behind it, I could see the white fire of the blast wave shrieking towards us. Soon, it would hit. I stood propped against the railing, still, with Mike standing near me. I looked over at him.
"I, uh...I'll see you around, Mike," I croaked out meekly, before dropping my head.
"Yeah, man," he replied in the same soft tone, "I'll see ya' around."
My respects payed to my friend, and with the white wrath of the End almost upon us, I had one short moment, briefer than the smile of an infant before it morphs into cries of sorrow and want, to think my very last thought.
I closed my eyes for the last time, and the same fiery avatar of resurrection that had haunted me for fifteen years engraved itself upon my imagination. Now almost free from myself and the world, I could finally see it in its entirety, could see its terrible beauty, feel its glorious fire enrapture all of my flesh without restraint, and taste its powerfully, otherworldly incense as it filled my lungs. For one millisecond of my 21 years of near nonexistence, it took roost upon the gaping hole in my soul, in everyone's soul, and I finally knew what it meant to be alive. What had abandoned me for so long, leaving me in piteous blackness, gave itself unto me wholly, and I knew then I had transcended God when the blast wave hit me.
Any storyteller that tells you that Man descends into blackness when he dies is a liar, through and through, for I have known Death intimately. When you die, everything becomes the purest white, as the sins of Consciousness and Knowledge are swept clean from your mind and you are granted the same reprieve of quiet innocence that all beings have at birth. Everything you know fades white, and then you simply cease.
This was the dream that came upon me a few nights ago. I rarely remember my dreams, though the ones I do always leave a lasting impression. Each one granting a momentary reprieve from this universal ennui upon us, they are always, without out fail, snatched out of my grasp by the strong, small hands of a bitterly tittering fairy. Whether they are scenes of beauty beyond the mind of the most skilled painter in the world, or bits of song that no ear has ever heard but that every person, upon birth, hopes they are blessed with hearing--and yes, some of my dreams do have classical scores which would shame the talents of Bach--they are always revealed to me. Along with them comes the silent prescience of all dreams, which imparts the knowledge that these things, despite their omnigodly origin, can be had at any waking moment because they are mine and mine alone.
Yet upon waking, and trying to grasp them and hold them close so that I can cherish them, and create new things upon their omniscient archetypes, they dissipate and I am left staring into the world again, ultimately alone. I'm sure they've narrowed down the fatigue and excessive sleep that arises from depression (or as I like to call it, my Old-Buddy-Old-Pal Big "D") to some chemical interaction in the brain, and if they haven't they very well might in the future. However, I know everyone has iconoclastic dreams like this, very rarely, maybe once every year or two. They accept them and they move on with their life. Broken people, people not well-adjusted such as myself, seize upon them and lust for them much more severely than normal people, because they see what little Life has to offer them. Those who have the hooks of despair latched deeply within them must sleep, for it is the only way they remember what life can be like outside of their mind's prison.
A day or two from now, my friend and roommate Mike will be on his way to his new life in Austin, an endeavor that has my full support and my best wishes for him. I suppose this is the context for the dream in question.
I think it's time to go back to sleep for a while. I'll be seein' ya' half a year from now, or so, when I update again.
Also, thanks for the Christmas card, Ms. You-Know-Who. Though don't think I don't know that the kids in the photo are really midget actors you hired help you continue to hide your secret agent double-life, ma'am. I'm crafty.
Current Music: SiKth - "Bland Street Bloom"
( I wrote this two years ago.Collapse )
No matter how many times I try to reason with myself that the individual cannot help but change, I still cannot prevent myself from wondering, in loss, apprehension, and a glaring self-hatred, just what the fuck happened to the kid that wrote this, and how I was dumb enough to stray from his path.
I wish him well, wherever he's gone off to. It helps to take my mind off of me.
I haven't posted for a while because I've nothing of importance to say to myself two years from now. I greatly doubt I'll have anything worthwhile to say in the near future, either, but I read this and felt compelled to force my thoughts into reality so I couldn't muddle things up later.
Alright, guys, lemme be straight with you all. I'm a solipsist, through and through. 9 times out of 10, I'll post emoness not for your attention, but to remind myself later that I do, in fact, still retain some aspect of my humanity that allows me to feel. In the rare occasions that I'll draw something, and the even rarer occasions that I post it here, it's not to get an art critique or to get support from you'se guys, it's as a reminder later on down the road that I did draw at one time, and I can do it again. I'll post a degenerate smörgåsbord of metacomplex verbiage not because I think you all actually enjoy sifting through all of the bullshit, but because I like to know that I can use these words with reckless abandon and with little thought directed towards a post's legibility. I am, without a doubt, selfish and egocentric, and the comments I receive from all of you compound this, and reinforce my sinful pride.
Since the creation of this journal, there has been one person who has tolerated this asinine behavior out of me and still stuck around. When I first created it in the form of bluepheonix, I had three people I knew from some other internet site (which was itself filled with paradoxically large egos) join on right away, and who promptly began to tease me for misspelling "phoenix" since I was a vicious destroyer of those who couldn't spell my namesake in the past. Eventually I just started anew with this journal, phoenix_blade, because with the typo even I couldn't take myself seriously.
The three people who joined on to start out with were catwoman980, grete, and ultra_lilac. Sure, I eventually dragged the sage Ms. clockworkari and the witty Ms. mighty_muggette into the fold. Muggy even had her sheep icon way back then (do you remember when?). Later still came dee255, shodan43893, and oralaki (before he became e-famous, by-the-by), and that_cad too, though back then he still went by the name of "narcissisme." It was around that time that whoopseedaisy and matrixx and the rest of my f-list began to hop on board, and after I joined that little brutal_honesty community the number of my stalkers multiplied. By comparison, the hanger-ons I've somehow managed to earn from youcantwrite are newbies.
However, in the beginning there were only the three. Eventually I became disinterested in the large amount of hubbub going on over at Ms. Cat's LJ - big outtings were never much my bag o' chips, and to be honest with all the inside jokes and whatnot that went down I just kinda felt like I was on the outside looking in. No fun there, so I bid her adieu. grete eventually stopped writing in her journal, which was a shame - finally she deleted it, and I'm sad to say I have no idea what she's doing now with her life.
Then you come to Ms. ultra_lilac. If there's one thing you must know about the woman, it's that her kooky British wit far surpasses anything you mere mortals are capable of. Whether she was talking about job interviews that degenerated into a discussion about werewolf clip art, or describing the naked Apocalypse that ensues when you do something as simple as dying your hair, every last bit of her journal was a (hilarious) piece of heaven. Hell, it was reading her journal that actually got me interested in making mine better than the piece of shit it was. Really, without her journal feeding me inspiration, this little ditty I write in every now and then would be nothing more than one of the thousands of journals describing in excruciatingly boring detail the everyday happenings of my extraordinarily dull life. (As opposed to what it is now - one of the thousands of journals that makes excruciating pretenses of faux literary prowess while it languishes in obscurity in a small corner of the vast, empty sea of the internet.)
Ms. Ultra was, in effect, my first interwebs friend in the proper sense of the statement, and even still through all of my whinging diatribes she sticks by my side, and I by hers. Since the beginning, she's given me comfort for the harsh times I spent at the end of my tenure in my father's house, and witty commentary for the times when my own journal's entertainment value was severely lacking. In that time, I've witnessed her go through several tumultuous relationships, and times of abject loneliness where I was powerless to help. Thick and thin, good and bad, you get the idea.
Today, however, is a very special day for her. Today is the day that Ms. Ultra becomes Mrs. Ultra by way of the man she loves, a gentleman by the name of mgrasso who somehow managed to sneak by her impenetrable aura of awesome.
So, today my journal will not be for self-effacing. Today, my journal will be devoted to Jenny, and I will congratulate this dear woman for taking her first step forward in the rest of a life filled with contentment, joy, and the love of her life which she has found at last.
Live long and be happy, Jen. You'll have an immature, pseudobrilliant psycho rooting you on wherever life may take ya', even if it is only in spirit (and in billions of meaningless 1s and 0s through an arcane, complicated electronic medium).
Current Mood: happy
Current Music: Korn -- "Trash"
Moments like this are really the only reason to ever keep up on the news.
If you'll excuse me, I must go and begin my training as a ninja crime fighter, now.
Edit: And when I come back from training as a ninja, I'm going to kill everyone at soulbonding. Ultra, you have now convinced me to never read anything, for fear that it will be soulbonding. Srsly.
"In recent news, the Senate Judicial Committee convened to discuss further options for the- OH lol just kidding, so i wuz liek talking 2 Legolas, and he said i wuz hawt, but i need 2 know iz it okay to lol sleep with ur soulbond? And Aragorn and Han Solo said they wanted 2, so i wuz like okay, threesome!
You ever just wanna grab people by the necks, and wrench their neckskin away until their blood squirts forth while they gurgle and attempt to make sense of their own grotesquerie of an existence before their eyes slowly become faded and dusty as they pass on into irrelevance, JUST BECAUSE THEY'RE COMPLETELY FUCKING RETARDED AND STUPID PEOPLE SHOULD HAVE NO RIGHT TO LIVE, EVER? I do. Violence - the bestest soulbond ever.
Current Mood: WTFninja?
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