to the other side of myself

i'm having bouts of self-mutilation in my head again. most days i feel this lack of energy does me good only because it keeps me from destroying this body. the images come in succession when i'm trying to focus on writing, and mostly when i'm trying to find rest. it keeps me from sleeping. it's strange how one can be so restless and yet feel so weak. the restlessness sustains me with an illusion of control, while i feel weak when it finally becomes a kind of physical anxiety, as if i'm squirming for air in a tiny room. awful, this failure of not doing. the frustration arrives when i see how i've wasted so many days, months of my life, accomplishing nothing important. 

you see, it's hard to love yourself when you've been in conflict with it for a while. self, you keep searching for different ways to resolve concerns, even opt for temporary solutions, to find another way to live; anything but the ways myself has suggested. see, here. i have paralyzed myself. settling for the things i have and still managing to lose them isn't a favorable streak. and i know it will not work; what i want isn't always what i need. self, you might want to do yourself a favor while you still have the time. already i dread losing you to contempt. get out, and while you're at it, why don't you do some real talking?

Folie à Plusieurs

My friend Michael just had to share this with me, and I just had to write about it. I cannot possibly dismiss this. It's interesting information you might actually appreciate.

Folie à deux (English pronunciation: /fɒˈli ə ˈduː/, from the French for "a madness shared by two") (or shared psychosis) is a[1] psychiatric syndrome in which symptoms of a delusional belief are transmitted from one individual to another. The same syndrome shared by more than two people may be called folie à trois, folie à quatre, folie en famille or even folie à plusieurs ("madness of many"). Recent psychiatric classifications refer to the syndrome as shared psychotic disorder (DSM-IV) (297.3) and induced delusional disorder (F.24) in the ICD-10, although the research literature largely uses the original name. The disorder was first conceptualized in 19th century French psychiatry.[2]

I am not surprised the French just had to coin a term for it. What with all the artists and writers that ended up in Paris back in the early 1900s, they were left with all that work to figure out how to glue these people's minds.

Forgive me, I am harsh. I'm not just talking about insane artists and writers. I mean everyone. I actually believe every individual has some sort of psychological disorder, some more intense than others. I believe any person will just have to lose it at some point. This is, after all, a mad world. It just takes 5 minutes of watching morning news to realize that. For others, I think their simple quirks just becomes a bit more apparent when they're under the public eye. Psychological instability is no exception. It will be glorified horrendously by media.

This could very well be more fatal than AIDS and various VD. We don't have to have unprotected sex to transmit beliefs. Although, I think doing so would heighten the delusion. In any case, up to what extent do we have to believe in the impossible to become a candidate for this syndrome? Does pursuing tumultuous, seemingly unrealistic goals qualify as impossible?

"You're not crazy. Crazy people don't know they're crazy."

Pulled back my hazy mind from frolicking Jupiter. Now, where was I? Right.

What cracks me up gets me by. I'm damn getting by.

The Ceremony of Unfinished Verses

I know, I know. I’m making myself sick again (as if I’m not sick enough) with all the late night bitter coffee and over-played tracks on my abused hard drive. As caffeine profusely over-takes my veins from the futility of thinning blood, I attempt to examine my disposition from a severely faded frame of being. I’m uttering gibberish, but that’s fine by me. At the end of the day, I’m writing this particular entry for myself, I believe, as a reminder of sorts. My twisted rationalization dictates, and I quite agree, that by making myself sicker, I may in due course remedy this ineffable disease— which is basically called the human condition. My human condition. I used to hover over the realization that I'm not exactly normal. I still sometimes wish I could just be like everyone else. But, I have chosen, and I know. I can never go back now. I will no longer tread the conventional road to existence.

So, what the hell am I gathering? Let me ask you: How does one try to salvage memories after loss? I don’t even understand why I feel the need to save memories. As if these memories will mean anything when I one day burst into flames and turn to ash.


Loss, premeditated or otherwise, the latter is the common misfortune. We can never really be prepared for something we always thought wouldn't change. Even people who deliberately try to lose something didn't foresee the need for it, until. O, well. Fuck Nietzsche and his eternal return bull-crap theory. I refuse to succumb to the probability that my life will continue to endure cataclysm, I am tired of having change as the only constant object there is to comfort me in this short seemingly imploding life of mine.

Below are strings of words. Incomplete verses. I have to write them down before this mad entity ceases to possess me, before these words escape me. They frighten me. They dishearten me. They make me feel alive. Though they do not mean anything coherent today, like in dreams, I will always know what they mean even when I read them again in the future, the world over, one day. Whatever the mind loses, the heart always houses. Forgetfulness is simply an illusion of lightness. Because to forget does not mean liberation; it doesn’t signify letting go.

It does not follow…

1.

To move like water is a graceful blessing bestowed upon birth. Mastering this movement entails suffering, attempting to acquire it is a lifetime feat herald with desolation and wretchedness.

2.

Our hands will always have their way: they dare to say what these muffled lips utter not.

3.

The gecko on the ceiling intently stares at light’s milky fluorescence

It’s fond of movement and illuminated things, his head rushes

With blood, his world remains upside down. Meanwhile, darkness grows

Older. I drank coffee as the black ants swirled in caffeine suicide.

4.

The 12:10 O’clock Prayer

You died sullenly

No source of life flowed

From your heart so selfish

And an ocean of pity opened up

To my whole world

O fountain of disdain,

Immeasurable divine heresy

Covers the whole world’s eyes

And empties our souls upon waking

O blood and water which flowed out

From the heart of discontent,

As a fountain of delusion for us,

Who will trust in you?

O, lowly god
Lonely mighty one

You lonely immortal one

Have mercy on us

And the whole world,

Laments.

Lowly god

Lonely mighty one

Lonely immortal one

Have mercy on us

And the whole world,

Laments.

Lowly god

Lonely mighty one

Lonely immortal one

Have mercy on us

And the whole world,

Laments.

Give me reason, king of mercy

Deliver the dying

From eternal fright and misery

And I will trust in you.