Revelations of Father Godless.

“Just a few seconds away
from everyone, everything.
Just a few seconds away.
A second of your time
and an inch of my own space.”
— Just, Mudvayne.

It’s not that I dislike people — individual people, anyway; groups are another matter — it’s just that I have a people tolerance that is exceeded all-too-easily. Even on my brief smoke breaks at work, more often than not, I hide in my car. Far before my work shift ends I’m ready to go home and be alone, to replenish myself in solitude, to find my center again as I allow the isolation to rejuvenate me.

Being alone, specifically in my own environment, seems to be the only way I have the vaguest chance of feeling relaxed, the closest approximation I can get to a state of personal freedom, the closest I can get to ripping away the masks and being me. Otherwise, I always feel trapped, always feel fake and suffocated by the persona. It almost feels that from the time I leave for work until I return to my third-floor, one-bedroom apartment that I’m holding my breath and forced to remain underwater; only when I lock and bolt my apartment door behind me can I exhale and get my rhythm back.

I’ve always been this way, and I had a smidgen of hope that it might get better as I got older, but that hope has been obliterated: I desire — nay: need — solitude now more than ever.

I am what the NLPers would call incongruent with respect to socializing: in the moment, hanging out with friends after work or on my days off sounds all grand and fucking dandy, but as soon as the time comes — even if I only made plans half an hour prior — I’m bickering inside my head as if someone is forcing me at gunpoint, as if I didn’t make the vow to hang out myself, annoyed to all high hell and frantically looking for some way out of it. I used to just not show, at least if plans were made far in advance; on better days, I’d call or text to cancel, often with some bullshit excuse. Now? More often than not, I just dodge that whole initial process of making plans, unless it’s that whole, vague, “Hey, we should get together and have some coffee sometime” stage of plan-making.

Why am I like this? It’s not as if I don’t want to hang out and nurture my connections with specific people, it’s just that I feel on overload. I’ve heard references to sensory overload, and that’s certainly something I’ve noticed, but in addition there is the emotional overload. Be it a delusion wed to a sensory hallucination or not, I consistently feel an energy around people (much how some claim to see auras around people, though in my case it is not visual at all but more akin to an electric-like, kinetic/tactile sensation) and feel as though I can feel their emotions as our energies mingle and resonate. Not only do I often find myself taking on the emotions of others as if they were my own, but on top of that I have my own intense, emotional reactions to those sensed emotions to deal with.

To some degree this can be explained by what is known as “psychological absorption,” Joseph Campbell’s explanation of how a child playing “as if” their play were real can result in a “seizure” by the fantasy, at which time the child comes to react to it as if it were indeed real. This is why good stories provide at least one character you can identify with, as it sort of hooks you and drags you into the narrative — be it in the form of music, a book, movie, or television program.

Someone gets punched and you wince; a circumstance a character is in is awkward and you involuntarily feel your own skin crawl; a touching moment brings tears to your eyes. This phenomenon is so effective that one can train for real behavior through “covert conditioning” — by means of generating elaborate daydreams dealing with practicing the behavior.

Even so, strange events in my life betray some other element, seemingly telepathic, when it comes to actual people in authentic circumstances. In other words, it doesn’t seem to be entirely wrapped up under the heading of psychological absorption.

In any case, it never ceases to overwhelm me and the only hope I have of returning to my emotional and cognitive baseline is to isolate myself for a period. And recovery time appears to take longer than the damage that makes its necessary.

Much of this overload derives from the fact that I am evidently the kind of person that most people trust very quickly and feel fit to spill their thoughts and emotions to. Strangers have divulged secrets to me, often stopping in the midst to say — at least as much to themselves as to me — how they don’t know why they’re telling me this, as they’ve never told this to anyone, right before continuing with their verbal cascade. They know I actually give a shit, perhaps, and that I’m listening, retaining, contemplating what they say and are not likely to betray the confidence. I’ve had a few slip-ups in my life, as is to be expected, I suppose, but generally I keep my mouth shut. And I’m not complaining about this, as it provides an unofficial social function for me, a sense of purpose — but I need to run away, process and recharge even more so due to it.

I’m fucking hypersensitive. Every emotion is extreme, every thought slices through my brain like a serrated knife, every reaction is an overreaction. Apparently, it’s just the way I’m wired.

My monk-like, isolationist tendencies, along with the fact that during social hours I am a walking confessional, has often made me think that I would make a good priest — there’s only that whole atheist factor that gets in the way. I also have memories of being a priest in a former life, which may have some relevance. But I also remember staring into the mirror, hating myself and holding a gun to my head, which is just another indication that such a path just isn’t my own.

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1000 Miles.

Something forever
fascinating
a thousand miles
in the distance.

Ocular lock.
Forgo blinking.
Just can’t avert my gaze.

Nothing worth investing
in this place all ’round
me anyway.

Walls surround, caving.
Dark cloud looming
above, growling
so deep

I can feel the earth
tremble
beneath my feet,
always fear
its ready to strike me.

Face: deadpan.

Soul hiding behind:
stuck in
suspended animation.

Like my sorry
excuse for
a life: trapped
in chilled amber,

all as a future
awaits far out there.
Sometimes seems

that only
my eyes strive…

All-Seeing I.

No, you cannot separate
the observer from the observed
and considering

the inevitability of contamination
betwixt the perceived polarities,

the seeming
necessity of residing at one
or the other end

(of what? This broad spectrum
at your disposal, laid out before you?
Are you so colorblind
that you see only
driving yourself to extremes

as the limit
of your kinetic capacities?)

and your inherent disability:
incapable,
as you are, of discerning
the scope
of the outbreak.

(I know it,
don’t for a moment
think I casually breeze
passed it. I feel

it. It must
be so fucking
frustrating,

but after all,
you can separate
yourself from the dyad
and observe
them both,

and that?
That’s something.)

Mindamned, Request.

Implicit
and explicit locked
away, memory secure from prying
eyes, muffled

to flies on the wall, classified
as safe and compartmentalized,

accessed only
if you need to know:

though every revelation
offered, regardless
of class or compartment,
has been redacted…

Can anyone know the truth,
or is it a puzzle
few know exist, even fewer

have even a few pieces
of, and a puzzle
with a box
that no one has seen,
no hope
for the vaguest glimpse

of the image
displayed upon?

Why all the secrecy?
Why obscure the plan?
Why veil the truth?

Why hide these pieces
from me? Never
have I truly suspected
that they were ripped out of me

and buried deep
in the dark corners
of my mind

by my own, subliminal hand
so as to protect
myself, and certainly
not that I had been handled
in such a way

by your own, four-fingered palms
all for my personal benefit,
as if out

of some concern
for my psychological stability
and physical security.

Never
have I been able to swallow
the optimistic

dream of official disclosure
and that breeze
of a fall-out

they forever seem
to assume is just in reach…

Even
my stupidity
has its limitations.

I know I am
little if anything more
than your resource

and that the truth
is undisplayable.

No motive to tell,
no hopeful
response projected
as a consequence
of the telling.

Any seeming help
is merely maintenance.
Long ago, I accepted that.

I can’t be a threat,
so why not just provide
for me some answers?

CE-V?

Contemplating
initiating communication,
sparking
some semblance
of a dialogue,

as I wade
here aching
for answers, slowly
swallowed by this stagnant

pond, up to my knees
now and I know
before long this filthy,
fluid skin

will swallow
me up to my neck
and toy

with me before proceeding
with the drowning…

and I’m naive
enough to think
that your input
might ultimately save me.

Out From the Shadows.

Sunset. Dive below
the horizon,
fading from twilight
to darkness.

Infinity exposed,
sea of stars twinkling
above as the mysterious,
terrifying and captivating lurk,

prowling, ready to pounce
on me, out
from the shadows to sink
eager claws

and thirsty fangs
into me, rip
my illusions
of courage
to shreds

under
the reflecting light
of our waxing,
waning
Lady Luna.

Sleeping
with the lights
on, one bloodshot
eye open,

curtains drawn,
door locked and bolted.

No hope to dodge or circumvent
for sure, though I can ensure,
at the very least,

to the best of my capability
that I will see
what’s coming.

Lament for a Narrow Corridor.

Deep down,
I still am
who I was then,

only more evolved
in the light of cycles
and the passage of time

despite the amnesia,

the parts
yet to arise
from the great depths
of my psyche,

the dissociated aspects
which I have
thus far failed to integrate,

and there must
have been something

so meaningful
in my cause which I would risk
my life to fight against…

something
more than anything: a narrow

corridor
I must confess

that I miss.

Monsters in Multiple Skins.

Standing
behind the bedroom door.
Taking cover
in the closet. On my belly
again, hiding
beneath the bed

from monsters
in multiple skins, alien
and human, as a passive,
detached witness.

Always fucking
with my head. Forever
worming ’round

in my mind. I’ve got nothing,
you took
it all. What more

do you want
from me? You leave
me fragments,
fucking puzzle pieces.

‘Till you in the least
help me understand:

away with you.

Agents of Change.

If it were not going
straight into the fiery hearts
of their mythological
hell in a handbasket, please

believe me, I would surely wish
the world to you,

but seeing as it is
what it is, as all those annoying
fucks tend to say, I will do you one better

and wish you
the very best and brightest possible future,

regardless
of our awaiting
conditions.

With that said: I offer
a few meager confessions:

From the more sensitive part
in the cold, black, dead heart
of my generation, and at least
a couple hundred generations

behind, allow me
to offer an apology,

albeit one
that offers nothing
in the sense of a way

around or beyond
this coming
cataclysmic situation:

I am eternally sorry.
Too disoriented,
so misguided was I.

So involved
with all these inner struggles of mine,
too occupied
in my profession of acting powerless

to conjure
the vaguest semblance
of strength
to enact and help sway

this shattered
populace
from the brink
of collapse,

just falling away
before my eyes,
forever after stinging with sweat,
stained
with the pronounced, red veins

of insomnia,
weighed down,
tormented with guilt,
plagued

by insomnia breeding
confusion, delusion, hallucination:
breakthrough…

visions, abilities, the dawn
of transformative revelations

far too late

as we had slipped passed
the sacred lip of the event horizon,
fallen, spaghettified,
into the unknown…

Never wanted this.

Our own hellfire
had become our home,
and so, now: yours,

and however pathetic,
I will do what I can.