Pleasant Surprise

Pleasant surprise,

Nice intervention,

A world from anew,

A place not seen before.

The crazy, excited, ecstatic feeling.

The kindness and intelligence.

A world shown.

Thrown from my own,

Complete surprise.

Through this contentment.

A crazy revelation,

Crazy existence.

My place.

The crazy feeling.

Ecstatic and total. Crazy and looms

The Problem of Being Logical.

There is a problem of being too logical, it’s like being able to see while everyone else is unable, it’s like knowing to a solution to a mathematical equation that you cannot speak  or share.

I find this in many areas, where I rationalise something from a startpoint and don’t stop until it comes to an inevitable conclusion (while also accounting for any and all gatherable information and other points of view to find the ‘best’).

The most enraging times are those when someone I know listen to my rationalisation, agree with it being the rationalisation, but still disagree due to some ‘inherent feeling’.

I would like to reiterate that I do not mean I come up with an opinion and hold onto it dearly disregarding all other views, this is not what I do. What I do is find out lots of information, let’s say about a situation, then I rationalise, let’s say, a solution or rationale. From a premise I construct a path, and keep testing each brick, each step against all other bricks and pick the one that stands up the strongest.

The worst times are when others see and agree with the construction of a rationale, using a process like I have already mentioned, however even despite total agreement. They do not accept the end argument, lacking any disputing evidence rationale or argument.

It’s also difficult when people look at what you say or write and look at you like you’re speaking a different language. You start wondering are you?

The end conclusion of this on a personal note, for most (definitely 99% at the least) interactions I speak like I have castrated my own mind for the duration of a social interaction. It is usually easier this way, there is no confusion, a conversation is held and passed. However, there is no stretch, no growth, challenge or stimulation.

The problem of being logical, of being, self-neutering to fit in with everyone else.

I also do not wish to sound pretentious or self-important. I do not value my own opinion above others, I welcome and prefer it when others prove me wrong, provide evidence or a better and more rational view, this excites me and represents growth. I love an intellectual debate, a smart conversation. Questioning reality, experience, perception, views and everything there is to know. I love teaching others or sharing my opinion and prefer greatly others to share theirs. The best thing about other people sharing their opinion (even if I reason that it’s not the best potential evidence in an argument) is that it is potential evidence, it’s another tool to be used. Knowledge providing more. Providing growth.

As always, the problem being too logical. I’m left in a world, either castrated or an outcast. Either way, disatisfied and bored.

The Meaning

The meaning,
The being, place and life.
All for something and all of me.

The place of meaning, life and living.
Placed in a world of being, of staying.

My meaning and place. My comfort and solace.

My place being and moment.

The place I feel at home.
The place to escape my torture.

My place, accepting, my being and place.

My world and my being,
To my shaping.
To my creation.

Shaped into comfort and satisfaction.

My meaning,
My world made whole,
My creation of the meaning,
Not there to begin with.

In The Face Of The Wasteland

In the face of the wasteland,
The uncertainty to come,

Left alone in emptiness,
This wasteland I find myself in.

Wasting away in the searing sun.
Pushing on.

Defying my Gods in the wasteland.
Clearing my past.

My memories return.
Painful reminders of my many mistakes…
They pierce my soul.

Remind me of the failures,
Reminds me of existence.
In the wasteland of being.

Barren, dry and dead.

Moving on and searching for the oasis ahead.

Making my path forward.

Trying to kill the memories.
All my memories.

To wipe my mind to a blank state.

To stand. Within my empty mind. To face a barren wasteland.
Rather than the piercing wind of memory.

Pure Logic.

Walking, emotionless, observing and being.

Sitting in place, thinking, pure logic,

An answer to every question, one dominating your thinking, always providing the answer.

Never the feeling.

Oh the emptiness of logic.

Even knowing, can be empty without feeling.

This pure logic. That surrounds me.

To rationalise and deconstruct.

To render empty, to demystify.

Feelings eroding, and fading,
Into a distant poast memory.

Left only with logical thinking.

A way that never causes pain.
How could it?
There is no feeling?

Logic strikes back.
A voice making all seen.
Rendering everything visible.
But taking away its point, its reason.
And instead leaving it bare.

Unable to see past it.

Into the floodgates of reality.

Able to see,
To walk past and smile,
To talk and meet all that may come.

This logic.

Able to make all clear,
But feelings left empty.
Left with pure logic.

Path Drifting From View

The path drifting from view,

Receding into the distance.
Tears welling up,
The memories, people, events and times.

All gone,
All in the past,
Left without a foothold,

No path forward or back,
Merely falling, drifting,
And navigating some form of landing.

Manipulating a descent,
One with other people, events, memories to be made.

The branching of many opportunities,
The uncertainty that comes with living,
The uncertainty of being, of existence.

All that is known,
Receding from view,
Leaving an emptiness,
A surviving,
The moving on with the days ahead.

Like eating without taste,
Happiness without feeling,
Thinking when never knowing.

As the path recedes from view, on I go,

To forge another. To burn the bad bridges behind me. To enshrine the golden monuments that have built me, kept me and protected me.

Severing The Mind

Severing the mind,
Ending the feeling,

Erasing my appraisal,
Leaving hollow comprehension.

Emptying the hurt and angst with rage,
To then let go of it all.

To be an observant shell,
A seeing actor,
An empty being.
A barely being.

From sight of site to moving on.
To the next place,
The lonely figure, to travel and understand.

The path,
Only gained by empty sight,
Through unending emptiness,
A path gathered with the emptying of the mind.
The severing of ties,
The hollowing out of feeling.
Cannibalising my mind of feeling.

Leaving it empty and bare,
Understanding left to reign supreme.

A sense of control given this choice,
Not blocked by feeling.
Not hindered by pressure.
Only the choice given and the choice made.

The freedom for change.

The severing of the mind.

Into The Howling Storm

Into the howling of the storm,
The echoes of a dark past,
The breaking of day,

The blood-warm memories,
The icy wind piercing at your side,

The becoming, the drain.
The movement, into the howling storm.

With control, with content, the slipping into darkness,
Into oblivion and existential angst.

The price of knowing, of knowledge,
The refusal not to see.

The reality others ignore,
The way it goes,
The meaningless words,
Fruitless promises.

My only,
Trusted possession.
My promise,
My goal, and determination.

To keep me company,
As I walk, laughing, into the howling storm.

Old Wounds

Old wounds,
The scars continue,
The phantom pain,

The wounds unhealing, discoloured and broken inside.
The wounds holding back healing.
The storm in the wound,

A reminder of the pain, the hurt.
The lost part of you.
Broken inside.

Unable to heal, even as you try.

The ongoing reminder,
Of  an old wound gone past,
The remnants remain.

The chains to the memory.
Association of pain, even after it faded.

Hating the chains to the wound.
The crime committed against me.

The wounds on me,
The wounds inside,
The wounds of me.

Those that run so deep,
Internalised into my being;

A toxin,
Poisoning me from the inside,
The heavy blood through my veins

Heavy thoughts, breathing and heart.
Running, within my mind.
Spinning around my thoughts.
Wanting a fix, wanting to repair,
The broken mind.

To escape the reminders,
The immobility,
The paralysis of my broken wound.

Taking tentative steps,
Reluctant,
Collapsing at the weight of my mind.

The wounds that drag me down,
Chain me to the floor,

The abyss of my tartarus.

 

These old wounds.
Tearing at the chains that hold me, confine me.

Roaring in rage.
Into the dying light.
Through the pain, memories and chains.

My voice heard,
An echo in darkness.
Broken, beaten and belligerent.

Battering the prison,
Ripping free of my wounds.

Laughing as I wrestle freedom…

Wrestle myself…

Wrestle my world…

From these old wounds.

 

 

Just been thinking about old wounds, how to feel, how I may fall again. How to avoid it. But worst of all. How old wounds make me reluctant for anything that may produce new wounds. Fills me with rage and confusion. Will go on. Continue to distract myself, until I can find an answer, work out a solution. This is the song I was listening to on repeat when writing this.

Numbing The Pain

Numbing the pain,

Feeling empty,

Dark and cold, all around, to the touch.

Mindless monster, dead being.

Trudging on, unfeeling, numb.

A wreck of the past.

A wound on the world.

A chasm of despair.

The state of being, pain at losing life’s treasures held close.

Ripped from the arms,

Followed by the dark storm, the empty silence and coldness.

Piercing and digging like razors, sharp tendrils into by abdomen. Into my heart and core.

But…

But.

I feel nothing, numbness to pain that comes from its constancy.

Numbing my pain.

Bringing it in. Bringing it close.

Fully reckoning it.

Feeling it.

Until that is all I am.

A numbed pain. Constant. A broken thing. A wound of existence. A storm of calm rage. Outside Alice, while dead inside.