The Return

Nothing I love or know better than madness. Everything good in me bound into the monster as well. In chaos it comes out. A healthy normal life is always a lie for people like us. You cannot run or hide. You simply lie until you ruin your life with illusions, and then the truth of your own warped mind is too heavy to bear.

My old friend suicide returns, remaining tangential in the mind, the soul. The addictive affection of annihilation. I am a tormenter best. I learned from the best. And who can take my lineage, my crown from me.

Only in pain I make art and create. Only in the biggest sufferings. There is no other way. You make art or you have peace. Maybe you make art to have peace. Because the non-art peace is just a lie. I am tired of being tame. And no one wanting me. I don’t want me anymore. I never have.

I want the crystallized version of me. The reduced, distilled, pure, and then hardened unbreakable version of me. Maybe this is what life is giving me. This is the process I want. For the result I want. A purer cleaner understanding of my most human self.

I do not exist without the constant call for destruction. This is my nature. I must channel it correctly. I want to be no monster. I want a human life. Sometimes happiness. I am afraid of myself, more than any fist or weapon. I fear my will. My loneliness. And my passion for purity of experience.

I am suffering again. I am writing again.

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Recovery of Self

I don’t want to talk about the things I have spent the last 5-6 years talking about. It is an odd thing to change so fundamentally, to truly crawl out of dead dry skin as a pulsing, moist creature. What it means to change is so immense. You cannot even gauge it. The horizon opens in front of you yet you remain staring at the ground. You think you are the ground.

It has at times helped me to think about my past, and the things I’ve overcome. There is, however, the danger of over-associating with the past. You must teach yourself to know more than your past. In imagining a future, you have to believe you can become that future, if not already are that future. You are as you imagine you are. Recovery of self is not the recovery of some muted thing, it is the recovery of possibility. The ancient adage there is no self still rings true.

Recovery of imagination. Recovery of potential. Recovery of dreaming of who you wish to become. When you think it, you have it, therefore recovery itself is a flawed premise. It is with you or it isn’t. You want it or you don’t. You’ll do it or you won’t. And all other rhyming opposites…

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kingdom of faith

In the task of falling asleep I find my mind filled with budding thoughts and discourses, and of course in the early rising to write, my consciousness has been razed by fatigue. Not entirely true. I could write about this breakfast cookie. Very tasty, moist and flavorful.

I worry about my hands. Typing, cell phone use, our hands and wrists are not made for these. Arguably they are better suited to boxing, however unnatural that it is, in it’s own way. It is perhaps more natural than my other pursuits, like acting and writing. Expression is natural, but language is strictly learned, we do not just do it. Acting, is it more unnatural than boxing? In a way it is. Public violence is more natural to us than public vulnerability, isn’t it? Boxing necessitates vulnerability, but you get to defend yourself and attack. Acting is like just being attacked. There’s a sense of ownership of self, however. A reclaiming of the soul that is similar to boxing. I only think of acting in the negative sense now. A public failing, a humiliation too brutal to bear.

Leaving my day job in two weeks to pursue freelancing and the creation of passive income. I am excited, and I feel more confident than previously in the success of my ventures. There is still a lot of doubt in me, however, so more confident is not enough to carry me forward fully. Little by little, rebuild a kingdom of faith inside me.

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I have risen extremely early, and am pleased with this, despite a mild headache and facing the reality of my very thin, cold pajama bottoms. I have an odd desire to cook. It’s 4:44 am. It’s not so much odd that I want to cook so early rather than it odd that my desire upon waking is to cook. I am not particularly hungry either.

I have always felt a deep kinship with the late night, but early mornings are similar.

I would like to re-read all the books of my youth, to see if I can remember that love of reading. Where did I escape to in my former troubles? I used to stay up late into the night with a book, or find that my first thoughts upon waking were the excitement of continuing the recent library discovery. Now I go months without touching a book. Has every aspect of my life been destroyed? Movies, books, theatre, music, I do not touch these nearly as much. Music is hard to avoid, and this is good.

After madness you must rebuild everything. Or at least I let go of everything in those times. Some friends could do nothing but read in the dark days. I try not to think of the past any more. To a degree, this is effective. But where do I put all these memories? I am supposed to learn from them, yes yes, but they feel so tangible,  like they take up physical space inside of me. How do I purge them? Or make peace. So much peace to make in this life. It’s a full-time job. I guess peace is an emotional currency of sorts, the a different cryptocurrency, what I receive for sorting out all these internal complexities which keep my little world from working at it’s finest.

At almost-28, I still have no confidence in choosing breakfast. I have taken to a piece of my roommates pizza bread (not vegan), and a few pieces of (vegan) chocolate. I will eat an apple.

This has been a strange, yet enjoyable post for me. Happy Saturday, folks. 5:06 am.

(For those of you confused, I work at 6 a.m., and therefore it isn’t completely crazy to be up at this hour.

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Notes to myself

Don’t stay up late eating chocolate and working on projects. Go to bed. Do it in the morning.

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Back at it. I miss you people, strangers of the internet, readers of my most private thoughts and feelings. Ha! But that’s always the way it goes, I’ve never been very open. Blogging has been a part of most of my life, when I think about it. Nexopia had a blogging element, which even then people responded to, and then Live Journal, of course. I never did MySpace. That was more music, though. Highschool. Straightened bangs over your face, graphic tees, eyeliner. First-wave emo.

I am 27. Almost 28. I have had this blog for six years. It feels like longer. Those days in Toronto feel like 20 years ago…

I am leaving my humble cafe job with the intention of never returning to the service industry or to minimum-wage labour. I have enough saved up to survive for some time. I want to work from home, to set my own hours, to move towards a truer freedom than is offered in our capitalist society. Although, there is plenty of freedom in capitalism, if you’re on the right side of the dollar, which is of course to say, having plenty of it. Can I make the machine work for me? Crypto, freelancing, these are the strange paths I am choosing to take. Strange works for me. Strange is me. My attempts to live a normal life or follow the trodden path have always lead me to great pain.

Freedom versus chaos. I am trying to define these for myself, to live in one and exclude the other, when I have spent a life living in one, telling myself it was the other.

I look around. My room is messy. I want a clean room. A clean room, a clean mind. I have always struggled with this. Thoughts scattered across my consciousness like these socks and pens and books and items. How to clean a mind…

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Has it been so long? How do I always forget the magic of this modern format, the ability to send my soul through sparks and wires (are there even sparks involved? I know nothing of this age) for your perusal.

I felt some weeks ago that something in me was dying. This was a very palpable feeling, an intense feeling of something being torn from me as it rotted, pulled down by gravity. The self-destructive part of me is dead. I have my little bad habits, an occasional whole bag of chips after a hard day, the choice of staying up later than I can afford, spending more than I can afford, but these are minute as compared to what they were. Now these are blips amid a steady chart of normalcy. I have become a recognizable member of society, with my rent and my job and magazines in my mailbox.

Something in me is starting to rumble again. I no longer fear these rumbles as madness, but I still fear them somewhat. I am not fluent in my emotions, but I speak them a little better now, and can understand what they mean when they scream. Not perfectly, but I am not completely afraid. I do not panic and mark myself crazy when I feel something intense. I try to listen. Sometimes I try to ignore it for a long time and then I listen, but still, I do not panic.

There are many large spiders in my apartment. I wonder if I have brought them here. I must learn to displace them, even destroy them, and I greatly dislike these tasks. Perhaps they represent what I must get rid of in myself, whether I like it or not, our dank little demons must be dealt with.

Why am I hiding? Everything about me, I live in a profound privacy.

I bought almond-cashew butter instead of cashew butter. How do I continue to be so foolish? The material world is as confusing as the inner depths, it seems. Feelings, labels, I understand nothing in entirety. Just pieces. I want a whole.

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