Internal Anarchy and the evolution of my addiction.(introduction)

There was a time, in a place where nothing much mattered to me except the next fix in the multi-leveled structure of my own personal addiction. I had no friends only varying degrees of enemies that ranged from the casual sideline spectators in the herd to the deadly serious and just as dangerous fellow predators who lurked in the same urban jungle foliage as I did, ready to take advantage of any slip I might have made in my own disease. The only rule was that if you were in the game you were fair game. I very easily could have taken the easy way out time after time and surrendered to the downward spiral and its promise of oblivion of conscience, madness and eventually walking death, instead I justified my behavior with the belief that the whole world and everything in it both animate and inanimate where involved in some sort of conspiracy to keep me in the gutter and so chemically pickled that I would never be able to be consciously aware of some hidden true perception of reality and any subsequent avenue for dimensional ascension. It took me a long time to realize that all I was doing was slowly dying by chemical addictions suicide, it took and even longer time before I was able to humble myself and decide to live.

It was a complexly layered reality I was addicted to. It was a reality geared for escape and ironically it became a reality of prisons. I was imprisoned in my mind and soul by my delusions and fears a much colder prison than any of the many ones of stone and steel that I surrendered half my life to when the constant needs of my disease forced me to compound the crime of myself abuse, by abusing the laws of both morality and society. Trying to escape the reality I was born to live in, I created a prison of chemical dependence that created a prison of illusion and delusionary transcendence, in trying to feed pains of need that threatened those illusions and delusions with realities return I created a prison of denial.

I did have my moments when I would wonder why it was I felt the things I did, why I did the things I did and I always assumed that it was hopeless to even try and find an explanation for those kinds of questions because to me everything I was experiencing was new. Sure it was the same technical kind of lifestyle and experience as everyone else but what led me to my own experiences were unique and personal things. I would find the same physical and emotional negativity that lies in wait for everyone in the wasteland of addiction but what led me into my own instigated ambush was where the problem was, the same kind of problem everyone will eventually have when they find themselves firmly in the grip of chemical and sub-cultural environmental bondage and addiction.

Everything Evolves,

Along with the physical aspects of my life my emotion also had its own evolution.in my rapidly evolving sub-cultural niche the stimulating factors of emotion were constantly evolving into complex structures of content, action and reaction. Now the end results that lie on the ends of any emotions spectrum are basically familiar territory whether good or bad but what led me to each emotion and its subsequent path of evolution were chemically stimulated situations with factors as complex as any mathematical equation. The song and dance of my addictions reality was predicated on a rebellion of mind and soul, a generational evolution of new desires, beliefs, attitude and defiance against the structure of society and its code of behavior and morality. The things and feelings I wanted. I was unable to even visualize. What I would have to do and the drugs I would use to do it were drugs undergoing their own evolution becoming stronger and stronger fueling my sense of sub-cultural expression into behavior more violent and dangerous than I could have ever imagined possible. My music was new, my style was new, my slang was new, my fears were new and my dreams were of a new kind of reality.in actuality though I was always in the same places, they were just illuminated by new shades of situational light. Living in a world during a time of constant and rapid evolutions of cultures and sub-cultural expressions I was bombarded by new realities with new standards of physical nature, required emotional content and acceptable morality. Chemical variety and intake, environmental toxicity, sub-cultural expressions and music with certain behavioral expectations and the blurring of racial lines in addictive chemical realities were all major factors in my own evolution but along with it all came new evolutions of frustration, despair, futility and shame and other negative emotional stimulations that helped to perpetuate the descent into my addiction and the effects of my own personal disease.

I am no expert on evolutionary change as a scientific whole dealing with the entire human race but by virtue of my experiences and most important my survival over much more than my fair share of little lifetimes and the multiplicity of fractional eternities that came and went in stuck on stupid seconds of vacuum that pulled me in every time a rush hit or my conscious awareness faded in the bitter end of another hectic high I do consider myself an expert on the evolution of my addiction and addiction in general. Constant and countless daily little sacrifices of self almost destroyed me as a rational, distinct and singular personality, and it almost destroyed my health and body, my capacity for emotion, my morality, my ability to dream, my ability to even comprehend my behavior and its effect on those around me, my capacity to feel, my desire to exist at times and my future. The thing is though is that I am probably not too much different than someone you know, someone you could become or maybe even just plain old you.

Everything Evolves,

Mine was an evolution of selfish personal desires, ignorance at times, physical tolerances and an increasing capacity to absorb pain. It was an attempt to escape the prison of a hated reality constructed by my own misconceptions, defiance, and confusion, twisted sense of need and definitions of fulfillment. I had evolved into the world of addiction, not the simple addiction of a substance but the total addiction of mind, body, soul and to a certain environmental setting, a different world right in the middle of reality with its own set of faces playing in the same game of illusionary life. It was a world of chemical addiction and mental disease too consuming and desperate to escape. It was worse than I could have ever imagined it being, worse than I ever admitted it to be, it was the best thing I ever felt.

Where the boundaries began I could never quite recognize, when it took control I cannot say, why it happened I really didn't care, where I was going didn't even matter.

Taking looks back at it all now and then in moments of clarity during my far from perfect days of now as I struggle with the complexities of life I effectively masked in my addiction I think I am sometimes supposed to hate but who or what. What I have become is still unfocused, who I feel like fluctuates and what I have to do is still more than I can visualize, whoever I am I just have to accept though.

It was easy to make excuses, just as easy to ignore reality. It was easy to fail; it was real easy then to say why not. It is so hard to accept responsibility at times but in order to succeed in my fight to live I realize it is not as hard or final as death.

Mine is a personal story, the same old story, the history, the reality, the future.

Everything Evolves,

Yeah it seemed like no matter what I ever did I couldn't escape my stark and critical evolution of soul in a world seemingly without pity, my world in all of its inglorious immorality and decadence. It was a cage of my own careful creation, a hell of my personal design and an addictive existence I just couldn't get enough of. Whenever I would think I had enough I would easily construct a reason to give it one more chance. I was unable to figure out how to co-exist with the flow of my normal society that clearly to me saw me as the different kind of person that I was, so I used the crutch of "rebellion" and its accompanying chemically induced paranoia to evade responsibility for my failure to co-exist declaring that it was all about survival and personal fulfillment of my twisted desires, a mentality that only guided me deeper into the ignorance of my addictions illusory escape.

With my often forced sense of optimism I enthusiastically embraced a hopeless notion that there was some kind of place of illumination and soulful release hiding somewhere on the fringes of my reality of addiction. I hypnotized myself with a promise of a great moment that would expose a hidden but truer scope of life that would justify my existence in social rebellion rewarding me with something better. The only thing I ever gained though was forever nothing.

Everything Evolves,

Over time the last vestiges of youth and any innocence were gone along with the simple right or wrong it will all pass so quickly flexibility of my childhood. No longer could I view life as a carefree series of unfocused days safely tasted in well- defined controlled environments, now the raw grainy and emphatic urgency of the constant critical situations I constantly encountered in my self sustainment requirements kept my adrenaline at full flow in the make or break, right here right now demands of a gutter, streetwise, hand to mouth existence. Everything I wanted I had to steal, hustle, weasel away with or con and the only thing I could take for granted was the fact that no-one cared for me in the slightest bit in my self imposed exile from the reality of normal life beyond what I could be to them or what I could do for them at the lowest possible cost to their own physical and emotional content and of course at the greatest cost to mine.

My own emotional landscape was soon devastated, torn apart by a relentless pounding of deceit both felt and admittedly practiced. I couldn't with all my presumed ability to rationally think discern any possible reason why I couldn't find what I was looking for from my snake eye level view of the society that gazed down in passing at me and my peers with barely disguised hostility as we wallowed so shamelessly in the muck and mire of our callous chemically stimulated immorality.

 

I had evolved figuratively into a singular personality but I was none the less indistinguishable from those around me, all of us being embroiled in our own brand of Internal Anarchy that chaotically seethed beneath the surfaces of haughtily exuded in charge mentalities, trying to fool each other with auras of self- confidence that cloaked insecurity and farcical images of innocence that masked the impurity beneath.

Home became a figurative word and world as the literal reality of my personal space was the streets, cheap motels, mass habituated squats, someone else's façade of home, dirt lots and alleys all of the visibly deteriorating with each passing moment and all blessed with the distinct aromas of fear, confusion, lust, desperation, mildew, human waste, sweat and the always prevalent resonating odors of stale casual drug induced bought or sold sex that assaulted the senses with the base degrading musky ambience of nature's cologne. Daylight was usually a dreaded source of illumination for my hectic reality. It slammed home the impact of those pathetically filthy and habitually sordid cesspools of humanity. It was a time of frantic and forced haste as the vital material substances that fed me and my shadow world were sought. Nights were always a blessed time of sensory relief and freedom from the literal oppressive weight of the sun on my tired and blood shot eyes. It became a world of darkness that denied society a good look at what life often didn't see those like me in the grip of a chemically induced disease. Hiding from the assault of that society's sights and sounds at full daily throttle, the muted artificial glow of the street lights provided an unfocused representation of my life that hid the ravages of time, chemicals and turmoil on my body and soul afflicted by my addictive reality.

Every night was a figurative black tie affair as the weight of negativity as it seemed my reality was always expectant of my inevitable soulful death by slow chemical strangulation. My only sense of romance was directed towards an evident if vocally unexpressed love for my personal journey of self- destruction. There was a history to be read in my eyes that often ended up in chemical thrall staring without focus at nothing in particular, eyes that could have exposed a vast sea of my inner soul in turmoil if I gave anyone a chance to look.

Everything Evolves,

So had I, just like so many others before me and to come destined to follow the same addictive path of escape. My own body was always riddled with the tracks from the countless razor sharp needles that autographed my arms with the signature of my personal demon of addiction as I delivered a steady stream of poison into my frantically beating heart. My soul was tarnished by a steady stream of inner frustrations tears as I followed that worn and eroded path that scarred my soulful landscape like so many other lost and still losing losers, flowing in a current of hopeless desperation to the self- induced slow and premature suicide of addiction to mind altering, sensory numbing chemicals consumed in a toxically tainted environment all the while chasing viscerally rooted delusionary dreams.

I constantly craved more and more of what affected me less and less in a quietly destitute vacuum of rational while trying to escape the echoes of every minute nuance of life that was transformed in my disease into a crashing symphony of hectic irritation..

 

My thirst for the great moment of illumination took me to great heights in my chemically simulated meditations, trances that in each end only exposed the delusion warped wonderland of my own Alice like imaginations creation.

Fueled by the fire of my subconsciously boiling sometimes perverse desires I was always drifting high above the reality of self. The true intent of the purpose of the disease that numbed my mind and soul against the mostly imagined pain of reality always showed me what I was ultimately destined to do, to chase feelings that never ever returned after the rush of the hit, the moment, the experience.

I would chase those feelings a thousand miles each trip without moving an inch. Entranced in my stupors by the taunt of perfection, perfectly aware that by virtue of hard earned experience that the only places I could ever go was down and crazy, that all I could feel in each instants eternity would never be enough.

The inevitable plunge of my comedowns exposed and instigated a hellish state of mind that reached out beckoning with cold scaly fingers to pluck me right out of the artificial reverie of my high, pulling me further and further each time into the turbulent depths of a burgeoning insanities endless sea, a place that did contain a technical "Nirvana" of soul, not of joyful bliss but the blank indifference of madness's lobotomy of soul. Languishing in a coma of reason that denied my true existence nothing could be done except to rail against my self inflicted disease of life. In an inane acceptance of that irrational logic I always swore that it would only be a matter of time before my lofty gutter presumptions and the mind altering sense of my addictions twisted perception would expose some great secret path to the door that would lead the way out of the self-created prison that held me hostage in a grip of visual and sensory denial, of course assuming all the while that I alone was special enough to survive this kind of trial and come to attain a higher awareness prying victory from the forlorn hope of my personal rebellion.

Little did I know that the only place waiting for me was a living death where the shell of my soul would be added to the pile other countless other failed and lost addicts and left to bleach in a hells fiery light. In ignorance I forged ahead on the road to that fate, losing all concepts of time and reality in the swirling hypnotizing spell of the rush. At every rushes explosion I always felt like a million bucks in my plug nickel world at the cost of another piece of my irretrievable youth, my sanity and the future of my life yet to come. I was rotting away on the inside as my body shuddered with the numbed ravages of my internal decay and the constant pounding of disappointment from constant deceit that ripped away at the layers of my emotion. My every action was a clichéd response of reflexive instinct from the physical nature of my bodies movements to the dry predictability of the vocal intonations of my words and phrases which were all constructed to further quench the thirst of my addictive desire to have it all for me and to leave half of nothing for the world around me.

It would only be a times when exhaustion and the end of the line mentality because my pockets were empty and all doors were closed to me option of the last resorts disappointment forced me to drop like a rock into a nightmare wracked coma would I stop trying to find a way to find more of the poison that was destroying my being with the false touches of hyper awareness and pleasure that masked the spread of my diseases slow and steady march through my being.

Everything Evolves,

Soon it was more than just a physical need that had to be fulfilled; my disease became mental, soulful and environmental. I had to have it right now, it had to be just right and it had to be somewhere adequately suited for me marinate in the toxic stew of chemical death I was convinced was actually life every time I indulged and the rush of the moment would take my breath away. I would always think that what I was feeling right then was how it should be forever. Like a flash it always exploded and in a flash it would disappear with greater speed than the time before until the frequency of my need was one long continual stab of pain in my body and soul that had to be numbed at any cost. Like a twisting puppet on a burning set of strings I was dancing to the beat of a pitiless master's chemical song of control.

It became a time of feeling all alone in the shadows of countless other victims of the same disease, right in the midst of a festering boil of humanity, in the heart of a dingy little corner of a city where in a sea of millions of faces I couldn't find the eyes of a single friend. I was drowning in the aether of negativity and disregard that flowed into my brains core in a never ending torrent. Every gaze to me held the face of a potential enemy, every place was an already conquered territory, every thought felt like a line in an open book exposed to the whole world to scrutinize and throw back into my face with the spittle from a venomous laugh of spite. I automatically assumed it was the survival of the fittest in a game everyone else "Had" to be playing. A macabre sense of form dictated how I thought about everything and subsequently everything I did in the great game of life I was dying to play. Of course the thought that all of my sometimes psychotic imaginings and paranoid fears were the product of well documented and long declared side effects of my chemical intake and abuse mattered not to my warped reasoning of mind. My assumption of a universal engagement in something deceitful against me was a predominant factor in my behavioral actions and reactions because I justified all of my selfish intentions with that thought and did whatever I thought and felt was necessary to get the material substances needed to fuel my addiction and disease. So blinded to reason I soon became enough of a creature of habitual instinctual action that I would just take to have and hold, to use and abuse and leave anything that didn't help me out in the emotionally empty landscape to further stain the parody of the world I lived in. a place of existence I delusionally thought was all the life I would ever find. Lost in that conscious nightmare, I would dream of the dream of an emotional paradise that I wanted so desperately to be my eventual destination. I never realized that the mirage-like specter was just an illusion created by the chemical fire in my soul, drifting in the smoke that billowed from the emotional bridges I burned in my campaign of survival by way of a personal rebellion against the occupying thoughts of logic and self- control that always tried to tell me it was all for nothing and that nothing would remain of my soul if I didn't stop. Subsequently damned by the treason of my own mind and soul, all order of life that could have been was plundered in the chaos of a state of Internal Anarchy that indeed reigned supreme inside. There was no-one or anything that I could turn to for help and the personal messiah of my conscience lay effectively muted.

In the rare times I thought or dreamed of actually trying to escape the grip of my disease and change my habits the inevitable "one more hit before I quit" would welcome me back to the disorder of my addiction. Looking into the mirror of inner reflection what I see was a thing so consumed it made me presume that there was no recourse available to me to arrest the downward spiral of my souls flow.

Not being able to make the adjustment necessary to return to the mainstream of a rational society's reality there was no other choice it seemed but to remain entrenched in the irrationality of my addictive existence. I was never more alive though than when I was dying a bunch of little deaths every day. As I said I had no friends but there were countless other addicts surrounding me all of us victims of the same disease of body, mind and soul, sharing the same symptoms, headed for the same seemingly unavoidable final destination. The only difference was in the individual stimulations that led us to an identical infection and guided the heart and soul to different levels of addiction, entrancing each and every one of us with a false sense of amnesia used to mask the trauma and disappointment of yesterdays. A frail yet intense specter of illusory reality that was used to transcend the harsh actuality of each day with an expectant (if ludicrous) hope of a tomorrow transformed into something more pliable, substantial and forgiving. In each and every beginning there is an end, mine seemed to be one that would never be able to be forgotten until a blankness of madness, a soulless finality of a cruel and wasted death by the finger of a victims retribution, a despair of suicide or the agony of creeping death by disease or lunacy brought to a conclusion another little chemically over dramatic vignette of counter-existence that would leave no lasting impression of its tragedy as it passed into the computations of another impersonal set of statistics, an end that could never ever justify the means of the addictive extremes of diseased life.

Everything Evolves.

 

 

 

 

Hello again.

I saw your face again today and it wasn't you I know,

That casual glance sent me back in time even though.

 

The memory it inspired could have been better, still its purpose was served,

As I couldn't help but to wish you a smile, it was the least you deserved.

 

Who you were in our once was, was an illusion you always insisted,

When I saw a person inside of you that you didn't even know existed.

 

A you unspoiled by the reality of our far, far from perfect circumstances,

During a time in a place that left no room for second chances.

 

I took it for granted that you would like to be the person I sensed in my mind,

We both had a need for a new emotion; it was a different kind you wanted to find.

 

Confronted by a conflicting awareness of each other, the image soon collapsed,

It could have been just my imagination; I think it was just more of my tragic fate perhaps.

 

I was reaching out from my shadows of nothing and you inspired an anticipation that set me free,

In the sometimes inevitable cynicism of karma, you moved right in to the space where I used to be.

 

Maybe I should have ignored what my instinct whispered was your best,

It still wouldn't have worked out, still for a time I would have had you I guess.

 

 

As I think back on our tragedy, form dictates that I should hate you; of course I never could,

Still after all that's how it usually goes for what reason I have never really understood.

 

I had my chance to experience you anyway even if it didn't feel right in my heart,

Retrospectively I'm glad I didn't let a compromise of standards, ruin my image of a certain part.

 

Seeing you again reflected in someone else's innocence though does make me feel a slight regret,

This second glance at what you could have been was something I did not expect.

 

Yeah I saw your face again today, it wasn't you but then again you never were you,

Still in spite of the hopeless thought it is, showing you who you could be is something I'd still like to do.

 

 

 

 

 

In a wasteland empty of substance, we persevere

"In a wasteland empty of substance you have to learn how to drink from the dirty cups of others in order "

Not to die of thirst, and if you want to stay clean you have to know how to wash with dirty water.

f.nietzsche-thus spoke Zarathustra.

 

Often the reality is completely different than the image stemming from saying all the right things. Unrepentant in full view of my yesterdays and their memories saturated with images of actions and reactions once considered mistakes, twists of a truly tawdry chemical fate and at times accomplishments, I find that I really don't have the time or a need to dwell upon the technical description of who I was supposed to be based on the appearance I proffered and the verbal embellishments I created to enhance my reputation.

In the progressively barren landscapes of my personal brand of street life's chemically inspired sub-cultural evolution, the malice, intent and presumptions of those all around me were blatant and obvious. Pre-packaged ready to wear and express emotions assaulted my intelligence with their Pavlonically imprinted predictability. Everyone's personality seemed designed to cover any confrontation or situation in whatever particular frame of sub-cultural behavior and expression that fit the moment best in success or failure. It was always without any depth or true individualism. It was just basic generalities flavored with an almost animated absurdity, an absurdity proffered up in those good or bad schemes of interaction with any variations keyed into existence by an ingrained subconscious emotional program of give and take.

It was a world where sound and sight took a back seat to assumption and subliminal expectation. That is why in order to do more than just go through motions that were without substance, in order to function within a sub-culture and yet function without it, in order to live in a chemical lifestyle that controlled living without sacrificing the life living within the battened down soul of my true self a balance had to be maintained between the life being taken for granted and lived without passion and the life chemically assumed to be mandated.

In that retrospect the question of how much falsity and illusion was the by-product of that balancing act with its own pretension and rote reactions tempered by fallacy always rears its self- torturing head up.

 

"Powerless against what has been done; we tend to become angry spectators of the past. The will cannot" will backwards and that we cannot break times past with our retrospective covet nous is our wills loneliest melancholy. ( f.nietzsche-t.s.zara.)

 

Yes, no matter how hard it is tried (in spite of the ego stroking pleasures of re-living times and places with those who did not live up to expectations) the past cannot be changed. The words cannot be re-spoken and any shattered bonds always remain broken .It is easy to lash out at the specters in memory while crudely trying to re-pixel the images to satisfy base desires of different emotional and physical conclusions, and it is even easier to re-manipulate old conversations to include the phrases that imagination and constant reflection have ingrained into the subconscious. Words that are keyed to just the right mixture of sage-like wisdom and egotistical expectation in the scenarios being re-created and ruled in the mind. They are usually words that would have drastically changed the outlook of an interaction then even as the now that is taunts that even in the best case scenario it would still not been worth more than a fleeting instant of self- gratification. To change the past without affecting the now would be impossible and yes, admittedly undesired in the shadows of the structure that is now declared as true self. Still though, I/we? Advance and retreat in perpetuity because of the incompleteness of so many of yesterday's interactions.

 

" That time does not run backwards is a major cause inner wrath, "that which was" is the name of the stone" wall we cannot break down and our will "our liberator" begins to ache on everyone we suffer willingly, we seek to extract revenge on our inability to go backwards. "Revenge" our wills ill will against time and all our once was's. (Nietzsche)

 

Suffering myself with obvious correctable flaws and suffering others with presumptions to unwelcome no matter how factual to even be considered for re-translation through the eyes of their personalities own multiplicity, thoughts written in the blood of my chemical souls spirit seemed to coagulate in the aether above the words on every page as the vacuum of that chemically influenced sub-cultures mass autism sucked the essence out of my believed to be concisely structured presumptional perceptions of what my once was could have been, perceptions often in contrast to the illusions of reality left stagnating in memories, memories crafted to personal specification in response to the involuntary invasion of vacuous stimuli injected into an existence obliquely by sub-cultural philosophies seemingly designed to guide one to self- annihilation .

Even for just a little while, a minute, a few seconds is all the mind, memory and will desires in long eternities of reflection. It all about a chance to make a point, change a viewpoint and then perhaps deliver a glib parting shot designed for shock and to emphasize the essence of a perception of the something that once was in a way that can change the awareness of that reality. Little things designed for personal gratification after a moment is once again beyond retrieval, but that is the sometimes sad manner of life.

All of the most perfectly constructed positivity the mind can inject into a reflection of a memory would not have actually made a difference and "THAT" is where the root of my wills ill will is anchored, firmly in the morass of all my against the grain desires for substance in a chemically inspired sub-cultural void that sucked at the flesh of my life so toxically infected by those who were seemingly born into conscious awareness already soul dead. The animal instinct in me cried out for its own taste of soulful flesh and even now it sometimes does in those reflections exacerbated by any lack of positive reciprocation from those in my pasts who still haunt my todays.

 

"Revenge is the subject of our most intense reflections, in our sufferings we always seek avenues for punishment, the punishment our revenge tends to hide in, as with hypocritical lies we strive to create a sense of good and clear conscience. (Nietzsche)

 

Real or imagined, over-exaggerated or under-emphasized my own thirst for revenge is either teased or sated by the ebb and flow of my own states of sense, spirit and conscience. The aftertaste of every drink is flavored by the coherency of the memory being re- animated and the interpretation of the interactions are structured by the willingness or the lack thereof to look at actual self in hind-sights focus; going back far enough into the memory to see if the seed that bloomed into the want for revenge was planted by my own hand, nourished by my attitude, forced to ripen by my own actions and ultimately poisoned by my own callous indifference to the to me theoretical individuality of others and of course perpetuated by my inability to accept the possibility of fallibility in my mind, soul and conscience. Aspects of self- tainted from my tendency to exile myself from realities full scope of interaction in my chemical cocoon.

 

"Our Life, our once was , was and still is at times so good to look at with its scenes all so well played by" characters full of vanity, and vanity was essential because it insists that the act be great and the characters well versed and dressed in the spirit of the act. Inventing self and enacting self, making it good to look at the life being mocked and crafted, well-disguised in that vanity and make believe. (Nietzsche)

 

"The Show Must Go On!", it did, it does and it always will, with all the rough edges, all the inevitabilities of defeat sugar coated in physical pleasures, chemically inspired, hard fought for, much to quickly experienced and matter of factly forgotten in the "it's always time for the next dance anyway" festival of fools macabrely pretending to be stars in the grand improvisation theme of a sadly misrepresented addictive life, playing on endlessly, incomplete like it was a minor partial after thought of a passing god dressed up in the tattered robes of a madman who forgot to say oops!.

Everyone was just right for the part they played (or in fairness) the part I thought they played; All that mattered was what I thought. The inconsequentiality of any other "hypothetical" independently created minds faded into the high pitched whine deep in the white noise of my sub-consciousness and its already over-extended involuntary thought process.

Everything was either too good to be true or too animated and ironic too be anything more than a comprehensively designed joke that nonetheless made me still stand up tall and proud in the often pathetic little moments of self- perceived mastery over my nemesis called everything else, well dressed up in my own robes vainly applauding myself in each epilogue of every sad scenario.

 

"I wanted, and yet I want to see "them" well- disguised and vain portraying themselves as good and just "and I wish I could yet again sit amongst you similarly disguised; misjudging you and myself. (Nietzsche)

 

Through the eyes of my chemically twisted mind the reality perceived as three dimensional was as illogical as it was predictable. To live in it again enjoying that illogicality in the same spirit of experience would be an absolute luxury with my now detoxified and rational awareness. As I re-create some of those situations and others in my imagination I find myself taking pleasure in the hectic eccentric realities that once irritated me so much, taking advantage of all that now apparent predictability to move away a second faster and ducking a bit more advantageously when the ironies of life inevitably swatted at me in my obstinate arrogance and to the bitter end as the last man standing.

 

"I walked among people of my own kind with my eyes wide open, but they never accepted me or forgave "me of the fact of how easily I could ignore and not at all envy their vices, lashing out because I would say that those vices were petty and small and that only small people need small vices and I found it hard to accept that small people were needed..,

There is a lot of lying amongst the small, "some" were genuine but most were just bad actors, the genuine were rare so there was little of man amongst my kind in my once was and the women tended to act mannish as a result of the void.(Nietzsche)

 

My most fractured reflection of self, my most unforgivable sin, my most overwhelming short coming, my technically saddest tragedy was simply an inability to lower my actual physical existence to the levels of my chemically predicated animal instincts and there gutter rush spectrum of desires.

In a figurative way moment to moment, hour to hour, day to day the flanking movements of constant currents of deviation rose and fell in synchronicity with my vision and thought. Out of the corner of my eyes and on the fringes of awareness the petty vices that drove a world of selfish desire and minimum effort at times seemed like things to be chased but as soon as focus and clarity were attained the momentary dreams fueled by desire quickly turned into a parody of the sadly clichéd nightmare that was my and our addictive chemical reality.

Any emotions in contrast to the pettiness and basic negativity of a sub-cultural asylum unconfined by conventional walls and restrictions, a static madhouse without exits always brimming over capacity with the petty and small minded who require group dynamics to function were treated with disdain. Positive emotions were the joke on me because I did not exploit the seeds of hate that steeped in my soul and any objections to those emotions always came from the ones they were inspired by, souls of leather calloused by the trauma of their once in a beginning was, jaded by the hypocrisy of a life promising all that you can dream of, yet only able to deliver the kinds of things you never imagined could be so. Still nothing good can be lost if the soul is never known.

They were times of supposition, assumption, imagination, and of course disregard. A once was unable to deliver that just enough in the face of its excessive far too much. It was a life lived in the mind, controlled by instinct and theory, flavored by the bitter tastes of what could have been, full of captions and mumbled self -narratives delivered in off key monotones between rolling peals of laughter at a taste for fallacy served up with ludicrous presumptions of infallibility.

 

"I often tend to throw my grand philosophically inscribed stones up, up and up into the aether, but every" stone has to fall. I am seemingly sentenced to myself and therefore sentenced to stoning by myself as the words so full of essence fall back empty of the meaning that the significance of someone actually catching them and absorbing the words scribed on those stones would have given them. (Nietzsche)

 

Perhaps if another day and age or another manifestation would have greeted my 1^st initial conscious thought of resistance to what was chemically perceived to be it, then all of the subsequent accusations of societal, emotional and physical repressions I used as the catalyst for my personal rebellion and quest for some supernal moment of ascension.

All of the idiosyncrasies of a mind destined to be situationally considered off rocker would be perceived in a different way in this time of life where everyone seems to know all they care to about the usually unacknowledged travesty of their lives stuck in places and situations where to be truly cognizant is to have to consciously acknowledge the sensory, spiritual and emotional brutality of a chemical existence that permeates down into the lowest strata of sub-culture and rises to the grandest heights of societies levels.

Any ascension into true individuality (how many people have searched for that?) in harmony with sense, spirit and soul is far more than routine and easy, and the savagery of mind that stalks the soul in a chemically infected sub-cultural with all of its accompanying self-doubt, self-pity, paranoia and insecurity is enough to cauterize any tendrils of that kind of desire. When coupled with the collusion of deceit and disregard and the conspiracy of the toxic world that both infests and surrounds that desire and any subsequent attempt at ascension becomes a whipping post at which to be constantly lashed by a nightmare of mocking betrayals and disappointments that have tendency to eviscerate the sense and spirit of the soul. Sounding good to self does not always equate to good. Coherence and rationality set their own mark, a mark that can only really be hit when the words crafted out of the heavy dark matter of the emotional world and life land on someone else's consciousness lightening their own emotional load, touching the sense and spirit of their soul.

 

"Sense and spirit often cloud the perception of self behind thoughts and feelings.., "

Under the influence of sense and spirit we tend to create overcomplicated impressions of existence as what is, struggles to manifest in conscious. (Nietzsche)

 

Overcomplicated is a mild descriptive as a diversity of thought built on a foundation of assumption and suspicion creates monstrosities of technical reasoning twisted out of any reasonably coherent shape by the influence of individual flaws and misperceived reality. Perception is the catalyst for our forming opinions and our opinions are the wings on which our passions fly forth to present themselves to the reality that encompasses the soul.

 

 

"In a world where you suffer for your passions, calling them evil so often that you need the pain of "disappointment so much in order to feel your devils become the angels that deliver the emotion that fuels your life. (Nietzsche)

 

Some souls are just too busy trying to rediscover accidental manifestations of certain emotions and realities in the multiplicity of dimensions that infect chemical existences. Some souls are trapped here or in some there with no hope for escape, some get lost in a feeling that pleasures but makes no sense in physical manifestations, others live lost with the selfish rudeness that fragmentary enlightenment breeds in those small and shallow, some souls do not have any desire to share in anything beyond their own immediate reality, but all souls tend to at some point become the victim of some sort of restrictive bond, self –inflicted or otherwise.

 

"To me, you and I are still prisoners plotting freedom, in such as us the soul becomes clever yet deceitful "bad. (Nietzsche)

 

Is it really deceitful or bad to desire all of what your reality, your soul, your destiny can hold? Is it wrong to spend so much focus in on internal intuitions that insist there is more to life? Is it so wrong to put the soul at risk of a "technical annihilation "by living and striving to exist in a state of blatant contradiction to the observable societal structures of reality?

In that deceit and badness can lie the roots of simple desires of emotion and awareness in their full range not the extremes of bad emotion and tainted awareness that existence in a chemically stimulated rebellion can and does foster, real emotion, not the cloying patronization of a good emotion offered up in a cartoonish caricature when a situation in sub-cultural drama and confrontation calls for some overemphasized clichéd reciprocation in the flow of a predictably intense moment.

To know in the soul that that something more is possible and sadly only ever find that anything actually found falls short, to see it possessed all around and to feel that it taunts with its evident presence affects the very perception of reality and destiny that fuels passion.

When everything in a culture, when everything in the observable reality in a subtle or even direct way hints or promises a realm of truly passionate reality and destiny attainable by sensory, spiritual and soulful perception it becomes ingrained in the subconscious and that inner influence becomes a force that can in itself further twist the actual perception of reality, perceptions that can cause fanatical delusions of reality, illusory images of a something else hidden behind a veil of reality, a reality that is suspected to be manipulated somehow and in a juxtaposition of perception one can easily come to assume that that illusion what is, is the illusion to be rejected as not even enough and that that not enough is a product of some karmic cause and effect, the punishment for something that once was somehow and somewhere not allowed to be remembered.

 

"To every soul there belongs another world or two, for every soul every other soul is an afterworld and in "those afterworlds we are more alike than what is now can imagine.

What is imagined or convolutely sensed as being the more that is somehow hidden or kept from you becomes focused in on in anger and contempt. (Nietzsche)

 

In a world full of scenarios that all constantly inspire thoughts and desires of just a little more, a better manifestation of the structure of reality more in tune with the reality perceived by others in the emanations of their contentedness that permeates the barriers of ego and automatic bias we use in our viewing of others and of the reality around us.

 

"An unconscious envy stares out of the squint eyed glance of our contempt" (Nietzsche)

 

Desiring a world of dreamscapes that can be found or consciously dreamed on purpose, we pretend to be uninterested in the landscapes of others because our perceptions leave no room for compromise. The kind of compromise that would bring their world into ours, a world of possibility fenced in by the irrationality of desperation and of course, our "Ego", a desperation fueled by an actual world of emotions incomplete in atmospheres of selfish misunderstanding. A world of ironic miscues and misinterpretations where at the wrong time we always seem to reach the wrong conclusion even before the moment is complete enough to render a viable and logical judgment, a world clothed by mass ideals and expectations imprinted by the virtue of having no other choice to choose as a belief used as the catalyst for perception. We lose sight of the fact that we are all so potentially alike. Our tastes for positive or negative have many variations and mutations but at the end of all of our spectrums ends whether good or bad we all arrive at the same final stops in the conclusion of an emotion.

The cynicism and expectation of always impending disappointment festers and at every final stop the bridge between two separate souls in their ascension will throw up barriers of suspicion that seek out any reason to over-convolute and misinterpret situations, any situation. In misunderstanding, individuality is usually the villain.

 

"Precisely between what is most similar, illusion lies most beautiful, that smallest gap is what is most "difficult to bridge. (Nietzsche)

 

And so we are damned to strike out against that abyss of illusion in futile impatience with the inconsistencies of self that are usually the only things definitive enough for us to see.

Our awareness tends to nurture selfishness with a sense of isolation, that isolation creates over emphasis on every minute nuance of interaction pulling focus on sound in so close that whispers sound like shouts and touch is so sensitive that caresses can feel like blows and it tends to dilute emotionality into emptiness.

That was my every day I called "here", and sadly the lighted path of all tomorrows "there", and all that is now.

 

"In every "now", being begins, round every "here", rolls the sphere "there", because bent is the path of "eternity.

The worst enemy you will ever encounter will be yourself; you lie in wait for yourself in the dank caves of soul and in the great woods of existence unseen. (Nietzsche)

 

It is perhaps more simplistic than I care to admit, the formula for correcting "My own" flaws, those flaws are merely products of histories of personal existence in the depths of a once so highly vaunted chemically saturated series of sub-cultural environments. A history for me of looking for rays of light in the darkness I fought so viciously to call home. The inconsistencies of my own self were absorbed into those shadows as I strived to find a mind and soul like mine instead of one compatible with mine, hoping to confirm my beliefs, justify my fears and exploit the breeches of metaphysically hypothetical fortresses containing a different reality that flashed into femtosecond like existence in the extremes of one of my many, many chemically oversaturated hectic, hectic one tick away from death moments.

 

"Some souls one will never be able to discover unless the one in search invents them first "(Nietzsche)

 

Thanks to freddy from way back then, all the rest thanks to me2002 Corcoran caliph