Samsara’s Little Helpers.

It may be that we gravitate toward certain individuals who closely fit the profile of an individual in our past, that are prime candidates to play that role, because the dynamic provided by that supporting role proves vital to the reinforcement of the self-image we mistakenly identify with. Those upon whom we project may in turn project upon us their memory of someone serving as an ego-crutch, and as a consequence we correspondingly provide the necessary stability for their self-image at the same time. To complete the symmetry, we might also find in wearing the projected skin that it fits far too frighteningly snug.

Together then we play the same old song, dance the same damned dance with brand new partners at best, partners that prove to hold true to well-worn tunes and grooves already etched in memory. Each of us serving as mere substitutes for one another in the show that just goes on and on despite the presence of every conceivable justification for cancellation.

We blind ourselves to our skipping stories by veiling old faces by using one another as mutual masques, all the while denying, however clear it may be to our close ones that we live in a boxed-in land where to remember is to precognate.

Narcissism in the Notion of Fate.

“It just wasn’t meant to be,” someone says of their failure to get into college, or in the wake of a heart-wrenching break-up. “I’m supposed to be here,” proclaims another, with still others explaining with confidence that they were “made” to do this or that. There is a reason for all of this, of course. It was fate. It is destiny. It was inevitable, and it was all part of a plan, even if it is one we don’t understand and perhaps do not even have the capacity to comprehend.

Be it utilized as a mechanistic spin on a notion of a divine plan or a romantic spin on materialistic determinism, this liberty-negating notion that things have to be a certain way and so will be strikes me as inherently empty inside. Evidently it does not strike so many others in this way, however. Generally people appear to derive comfort from the notion of fate or destiny, of some authority figure on the mighty throne of the cosmos calling the shots, providing moral structure held in place by extreme and eternal threats and promises. Still, this bad-ass, psychopathic creator casts his invisible hand in our lives from time to time to test the faithful and listen to their prayers. He is responsible for saving your life in that accident in which you “should have” died though conveniently never to blame for having put your life in jeopardy in the first place.

I am blown away that this insane notion is still embraced by so many people. You failing to die despite the odds stacked in the Reaper’s favor — at least as you calculate them, to highlight a vital distinction — does not have any cosmic significance. Can’t you just recognize that you merely managed to dodge the bullet? That your doctors, state of mind, social connections and lifestyle lead to you overcoming the cancer? That this was borne of your individual effort, intelligence, skill with some incidental assistance from chance? Can you please cease crediting your invisible and largely negligent spacetime-creating sky god with everything when if he actually existed he would clearly constitute the earthen organisms’ equivalent to a deadbeat dad?

Take credit for your own accomplishments, admit fault when and where its due. Take personal responsibility for your actions and earn some self-respect. Also important, perhaps even more important, ask yourself a question. What makes you so damned special that the creator of the fucking universe would set aside time to listen to your relatively petty bullshit, or save your particular ass from death or disaster, all while leaving so many other lives in ruins, so many other people six feet beneath the surface of the earth?

Yes, there is always a reason. I also operate on the premise, leading me to the attitude that given the right context, anything makes sense. The reason is not necessarily an answer as to the why of the matter, however, which is to say the intention or deliberate purpose behind the matter, as no why may exist. Instead, the reason may only add up to the cold, lifeless, stone innards of what began as an empty, hollow how. Be it pot of gold or pile of shit, it may just have been luck — no self-masturbatory strings attached for the ego to erect itself under the guise of greater, cosmic hands and jettison meaning.

Innerspeak.

If this is truly the way you want it, do you realize where our path is leading? Do you understand that at 35 years of age we are living in a prison of fear and disorientation? I know you fear a new job, but the one we have produces misery — and it gets no better when we sleep in and threaten this job we hate yet fear leaving. The only way out of this is to push through it, and the sabotage you have inflicted does not serve anything but the perpetuation of our stagnation, the agony we suffer. We need to work together to move forward, and such an evolution is necessary in order to survive, which is our only hope to thrive. I know you have my best interests at heart, and you try ever-so hard, but you are actually working against me, and as a consequence against us. You want freedom, a place to play, but as the outer adult I need to develop the capacity to nurture you in an appropriate environment, in a long term way, and my fight for stability and forward mobility has been thwarted at every turn. If we remain divided, the world has conquered us and our present position is as good as a grave. Do you want us to die here, and like this, in the familiar miserable state we have in our last two tours around this relentless wheel? It helps to remember the meaninglessness we felt, the poverty endured, the loneliness that ripped away our insides along with all that guilt, regret, depression, rage and self-loathing. This life we live is suicide in a way. You are killing me, biting the hand that feeds. Sabotaging me, you only sabotage yourself. It need not be this way. We can ride together into the dawn of a new day, grab the reigns of will together and make this life our own.

Tantrum.

Heat washes across my skin in an abrupt flash as this sensation within infects me. Like a maddening itchiness that cannot be scratched coupled with a sustained discomfort inside my body. It feels something like wearing cloths too tight or being in an uncomfortable position in bed, only I cannot reposition or change my cloths.

I cannot make it go away. What the fuck is wrong with me? Why am I so sensitive, always feel so intense, extreme, on edge? I am a spineless outer parent to an overwhelming inner child.

I feel where it’s coming from. I sense his attention. I’m aware of him being aware of me in tandem with my own self awareness. Full-spectrum hyper-consciousness. I can’t concentrate. I keep fucking up my normal work routines in the dining room, unable to ignore his energy.

I fight myself, fight my anxiety and frustration. I don’t want to be an asshole. The guy is nice to me, he just comes on too strong and doesn’t seem to sense my discomfort — either that or he does and simply doesn’t give a shit.

The feeling brings fourth a word, rape, and I’ve never been raped so far as I can recall but that’s what comes to mind.

Inner pressure rises and I fight to keep it contained, but the flask begins to crack. I keep doing work in the dining room and then go in the back kitchen for awhile or sneak outside to have a smoke like a goddamn ninja so he doesn’t follow me. It’s like I’m underwater around him and I have to keep coming up for air.

He stays there all night until five minutes to eleven when I lock the doors. Politely, I try and get him to leave, and he putzes around and keeps talking to me.

Finally I get him out and start mopping the dining room, but I can feel his eyes. I ask the manager if he’s watching me from the window. She says he is. I see him out of the corner of my eye, look at the ground and I scream.

Go the fuck away. Damn it, fuck, fuck, just go the fuck away.

I scream it at the floor. The glass within me shatters. Out of control, losing my grip again. Pure rage. Hearing my screaming, seeing me throw things, he finally goes away.

Finally.

Truth, Uncertainty.

Walls collapse
all around me.
Disillusion has weakened
the ties that bind, so
let them break away.

Killing me.

Frustration elevates
as my compass
continues to spin.
Never know where I am,
so how is there a hope
in the world
of getting the fuck
out of here?

Just drive around in circles
till you find a way out,
no sense in idling.

Pressure-cooker intellect
breeding analysis paralysis.
Must bring form
to these meanderings,
reach out beyond the arm chair

to see what’s really
there after all.

Life is an experiment
with a premise.
Execute to verify, falsify.
Test again to ensure.

Revise or integrate,
move forward
to earn more understanding.

Walls collapse
amidst the heart
of an illusion, fading.

Embracing the core in me
rising for clarity
being the only
truth owned in this uncertainty.

Duality & the Road to Hell.

Clearly if I desire to do something I keep failing to do there is a counterforce within me serving to perpetuate this self-sabatage. This incongruence must me remedied if there is to be any moving forward.

NLP takes the perspective that unconscious forces always have our best self-interest in aim, though the road to hell is paved with good intentions, as they say. The issue is the false presumptions that keep this counterforce in motion which could be remedied, perhaps, given communication between both force and counterforce.

Phobic.

Stand to see
or at least take a
peek past
the options of crash and burn
or run away
that keep you at bay.

Nothing here to lose
but comfort’s sour
agony anyway.

Any container
cramping the contained
is no shelter,
but a prison.

Habit’s the worst kind,
avoidance
in aim builds and wires
an invisible fence
fueled by fear that keeps
us clear of collapsing
the probabilities
into actuality,
leaving

more room in the head
to breathe.

Of Violence Fed By Cencorship.

Violence is not conjured out of people, psychopathic behavior does not possess people: it is embraced by them.

They chose it.

People are not just fleshy little bottles to be filled with whatever the culture pours into their gourds. Yes, the joint influence of genetics and environment may constitute what some call “fate,” but if so all fate truly does is provide ultimately arbitrary game rules. Merely the degree of difficulty in each and every choice we make are dictated, not the choice itself.

Weak of will, we often walk the well-worn path carved in the sand as if blind to the vast beach to either side, but we need not succumb to the easiest route. Nature and nurture together offer a spectrum of choices that stretch from the path of least resistance to the path of greatest resistance — yet by no means does it dictate how one elects to play. The path of least resistance is always a temptation, but successful seduction requires a willing participant.

In being independent of the game, however hypnotized into assuming otherwise, what one chooses is one’s own personal freedom and responsibility. This is opposed to the notion that it is the music or the video games or the movies providing programming for a vacant meat machine that naturally carries out the commands.

Being exposed to violence may therefore make one more prone to violence, but isolating oneself from violence only makes one more vulnerable to it as a consequence. Exposure to reality as-it-is is also a necessary prerequisite to changing it — or dealing with it through adaptation if change proves to be impossible. Though not currently in trend, people can indeed think for themselves. All they require is exposure to reality coupled with understanding in order to make more educated choices.

Censorship is the antithesis, not the antidote.

Enduring the Wait.

I am the unseen face,
the masque,
the hand that holds
me back.

I am the cage,
I am the me that I contain.
I am deranged
on a blue-green rock,

a beautiful playground,
population: insane.

Always wanted to
change myself,
really know myself,
wanted to
help change the world,

motivation resisted
in my wait for certainty,
saving energy on the sidelines,
prepared to strike
when I feel it
resonate
with my natural rhythm,

as if all the world’s a playlist
on random
just bound to select
my song
if only I
endure the wait.

Pineal & the Spinning Compass.

The pineal gland is associated with Ajna, the “third eye” chakra. This little gland is said to play a role in our sleep/wake cycles and sense of direction. Might it have relevance to some of my issues?

Case in point: I am a chronic insomniac with an inconceivably bad sense of direction — from my breech birth to getting lost when daring to cross the boundary of well-worn routes that hardly stretch beyond work and home, as I have been reminded two days in a row now. I got lost picking up my roommate and just now got back from trying to find a place in an area where I used to work.

I honestly feel apart from myself right now, looking at myself with an expression that coveys not anger, hatred, or even embarrassment, as has always been the case in the past, but rather disappointment, confusion, and frustration.

How the hell do I get lost so easily? Could it be a mutant pineal causing a sort of directional dyslexia, or does that just sound more than mildly cool to me? Could this total lack of any sense of direction also explain things on a grander scale, such as my usually stagnant, occasionally meandering path in life?

Motivation begins to feel futile when taking the initiative only gets you dizzy, inevitably returning back to familiar patterns without a single fucking thing to show for your shameful struggle, you know? What left is there to do but keep trying?

“Do or do not,” says a little green Jedi. “There is no try.”

No, Yoda, you bum-leg Taoist muppet, there is a try, there is indeed, and I’m perpetually there, my path and my mind just spin-spin-spinning like a top.