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Sunday, 16 October 2011

You either inhibit, control, or liberate others

A load of aimless rambling.  It's been all said and done before. A meander through the piles of festering trash in my mind.  I'll address you as my dismal diary, yet frankly you aren't a true diary to me, because I'm aware of the fact that it's possible you may be read by others.  And of course, naturally I have to be self conscious about that and further conceal things I wish to present as raw and unconcealed, yet deceptively they aren't. It's always about censorship as a protective mechanism, because self inflicted vulnerability is like suicide to the sensitive soul.  Maybe sensitive souls are merely maladaptive cowards - oh no! judgementalism? Maybe it's just a harsh form of the truth. But how could I even tell - the one who's very name means the very thing I struggle so violently with!  What a black joke, or depending on your perspective and mental health: a curse. 
I love someone or something and I don't think they love me.  But why not be saint-like, like beloved Francis..."not so much to be loved, as to love", I could be speaking metaphorically, metaphysically, or personally-specific here, I could be delusional, deceived, or fondled in the crooked arms of reality at this moment. My relationship with the world is one that can't even be prodded out on a keyboard.  So much time is wasted.  I'm living death and so are you, so why do we insist on playing our parts, acting out our roles, and submissively bowing our knees and necks to the onslaught of the emptiness we've created? when we could be living?  But few idealists are realistic, ha, utterly incompatible. Do I think I can really escape?  Won't I?  It's likely I won't.  No!  Won't I just be another wife looking after 3 kids, a home-maker confined to the house waiting for the husband to arrive home - the deathly complacency of comfortable-familiarity living, drive kids to school, disconnected nights watching the TV, make dinner, make love, make more kids, make comfortable sense of everything and live life in a prison without bars, so closed, so narrow minded, until death do we part?  Or even sooner maybe. Isn't that truly the most realistic end? Or switch the roles, and a business-woman instead, yet living an equally empty life. Why is not wanting to settle for second best a crime?  There's such spiritual dryness in my life at the moment.  It's a form of desolation no one else can share as precisely as I experience it personally, an overwhelming suffocating disorientation; confusion experienced through a jaded mind. Parents and friends are no help whatsoever.  Any help is most likely a complication, or an exacerbation of the pussy wound.
There must be sacrifices in life musn't there?  Is it hedonistic to say that I want heaven on earth?  Ha, lemme at myself.  But I'm sick of tearing chunks from myself, humiliating myself in front of myself, I have the right to be loved and cherished, just like anyone else, "warts and all". Don't I?      
There's so much love in the world, there's so much death as well.  I know so little about so many things, but I know more than I ever wanted to know about others.  I want to be everything to you, and you everything to me.  But we're all scared.  We just deal with it in different ways.    

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