Night-Gaunts
May. 24th, 2011 12:50 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rainspiritCan't sleep. Want to sleep. Can't.
Reading the blogs of dead girls in their 20's, from my area, vibrant lives ended too fast as a testament to the fickleness of our kind. A city built on superficial dreams, propelled by fantasies of something greater than sand. Terror of my country, terror of other people's countries. Humans. HUMANS.
Whenever I can't understand people, I get the urge to classify them as humans. I think it's a psychological thing: Treat them as a classification of sentient species and it's less horrible to imagine all the things we're capable of. Would we be content with an afterlife built by a slave labour caste? (Of course we would be. Well, the herd would, at least.)
I can't stop. My body can rest, but my mind can't stop. If I let my body rest, suddenly my eyes snap open as I contemplate something terrible in the dark. My paranoia overcomes me, and I realize how screwed up things are, how utterly mad our society is. Have we really truly come this far on our own? What is the secret to our success, when we are driven by such fickle desires? Such herd-like qualities?
I think of this book I want to write, but then I think of the languages I must learn to speak in the tongue of human beings. Do you know, I was warning one of my Nova Scotian roommates about electro-magnetic fields in the microwave, and he said something like, "Aw, life's too short." And I replied, "Exactly! Life's too short, so why shouldn't you take precautions in preserving your life?" It was only later - tonight, really - that I actually thought about it to parse the true meaning of his sentence: "I don't care." ...Oh. Like a flash, it all comes clear.
Every time my blog becomes self-referential and doubting, I imagine it becomes a little less readable. But then I remember that this blog is a vent for all my conscious meanderings in the first place, so I'm allowed to get out "Am I arrogant?" and leave that in the air, dangling on its side like a half-formed comic strip thought bubble. I'm allowed to contemplate that imagining the species I was born into as being actually separate from me implies putting myself in a position above them, but in truth, the fact that my mind is intensely over-active in its thought processes probably elevates it to... at least fantasize about such things, about being capable enough of lifting itself from the squeezing, claustrophobic herd and peeking its head out for a moment.
I am trapped. I am here. I am a prisoner that's scared to leave his cell for fear that there is nothing left of the outside world.
Somewhere along the line I lost my spirituality. I lost my romance. I stopped believing in magic, in the idea that life out there could be more than just sensory pulses. Even though I read, every day, about scientific miracles, and I am exposed in some ways to the world at large, I am ever confined, ever judgmental. In this light, I am a better critic than I am a writer, because my spirit to create has nigh-fled before my own terror, and all I have left is the evil voice that stopped it all from coming out in the first place.
I am starting to accept that I am out of shape and I'll be staying that way for some time. I will be staying single, alone, confined to the status of "not a prize catch" for as long as it takes to get through this summer of discontent, of teenagers and faulty internet lines and dishes and boiled stinging nettle vegetarian homemade pizza. It's starting to sound a little less bleak and horrible the more I think it's okay.
I am going to wake up in five hours and I'll be too tired to move and I may embarrass myself a little somehow, maybe, somewhere along the line of transferring beds, seeing as I'm sleeping in a couch bed at the moment.
Trying again. Trying again. Have to at least let my body rest if my mind won't let up, but at least now some of the terror has gone away. At least now I can almost touch slumber.
At least.
Going now. Good night to the rest of you.
Reading the blogs of dead girls in their 20's, from my area, vibrant lives ended too fast as a testament to the fickleness of our kind. A city built on superficial dreams, propelled by fantasies of something greater than sand. Terror of my country, terror of other people's countries. Humans. HUMANS.
Whenever I can't understand people, I get the urge to classify them as humans. I think it's a psychological thing: Treat them as a classification of sentient species and it's less horrible to imagine all the things we're capable of. Would we be content with an afterlife built by a slave labour caste? (Of course we would be. Well, the herd would, at least.)
I can't stop. My body can rest, but my mind can't stop. If I let my body rest, suddenly my eyes snap open as I contemplate something terrible in the dark. My paranoia overcomes me, and I realize how screwed up things are, how utterly mad our society is. Have we really truly come this far on our own? What is the secret to our success, when we are driven by such fickle desires? Such herd-like qualities?
I think of this book I want to write, but then I think of the languages I must learn to speak in the tongue of human beings. Do you know, I was warning one of my Nova Scotian roommates about electro-magnetic fields in the microwave, and he said something like, "Aw, life's too short." And I replied, "Exactly! Life's too short, so why shouldn't you take precautions in preserving your life?" It was only later - tonight, really - that I actually thought about it to parse the true meaning of his sentence: "I don't care." ...Oh. Like a flash, it all comes clear.
Every time my blog becomes self-referential and doubting, I imagine it becomes a little less readable. But then I remember that this blog is a vent for all my conscious meanderings in the first place, so I'm allowed to get out "Am I arrogant?" and leave that in the air, dangling on its side like a half-formed comic strip thought bubble. I'm allowed to contemplate that imagining the species I was born into as being actually separate from me implies putting myself in a position above them, but in truth, the fact that my mind is intensely over-active in its thought processes probably elevates it to... at least fantasize about such things, about being capable enough of lifting itself from the squeezing, claustrophobic herd and peeking its head out for a moment.
I am trapped. I am here. I am a prisoner that's scared to leave his cell for fear that there is nothing left of the outside world.
Somewhere along the line I lost my spirituality. I lost my romance. I stopped believing in magic, in the idea that life out there could be more than just sensory pulses. Even though I read, every day, about scientific miracles, and I am exposed in some ways to the world at large, I am ever confined, ever judgmental. In this light, I am a better critic than I am a writer, because my spirit to create has nigh-fled before my own terror, and all I have left is the evil voice that stopped it all from coming out in the first place.
I am starting to accept that I am out of shape and I'll be staying that way for some time. I will be staying single, alone, confined to the status of "not a prize catch" for as long as it takes to get through this summer of discontent, of teenagers and faulty internet lines and dishes and boiled stinging nettle vegetarian homemade pizza. It's starting to sound a little less bleak and horrible the more I think it's okay.
I am going to wake up in five hours and I'll be too tired to move and I may embarrass myself a little somehow, maybe, somewhere along the line of transferring beds, seeing as I'm sleeping in a couch bed at the moment.
Trying again. Trying again. Have to at least let my body rest if my mind won't let up, but at least now some of the terror has gone away. At least now I can almost touch slumber.
At least.
Going now. Good night to the rest of you.
no subject
Date: 2011-05-24 03:09 pm (UTC)Love
Dad
no subject
Date: 2011-05-30 08:55 am (UTC)Fortunately life is complex and contradictory and the ultimate connectedness of individual existence is equally valid.
Who can really understand human behavior, how evil can at times be so banal, how nobility can emerge from crisis, how love can heal, how fear kills.
I love you my son.
Dad