Dirty,
(a Short Glimpse
into Insanity),
by rewired,
circa 1997.
“The clinical picture of a person who has been reduced to elemental concerns of survival [for prolonged periods] is still frequently mistaken for a portrait of the victim's underlying character. Concepts of personality organization developed under ordinary circumstances are applied to victims without any understanding of the corrosion of personality that occurs under conditions of prolonged terror.”
-- Judith Herman.
This is disorientation of the soul. This is loosing yourself to find yourself.
How would you deal with it if your days and nights blended together like this? How would you feel if, to you, it seemed as if had just been a really long and bad day when in truth a whole two years had gone by? This, you would realize, is the only true hell - the pain of not knowing, but having full and constant awareness of your own ignorance; the pain of knowing only that what did seem to be true didn't actually make much sense at all.
The thoughts that dominate the kingdom of chaos I cradle in my cranium: how do I handle it all? There was a time long ago - and if I try really hard, I can almost remember what it felt like - when I sat on the throne of this land as it’s king. I was overthrown, however. Who knows who’s in control now? Was I ever really in control at all? I just walk on in the darkness of my mind until those thoughts start chasing me again, and those emotions begin to pull me down.
People have a hard time with this, I’ve noticed. They cannot face their pain, stare directly into it’s eyes with a hope for understanding, as I face mine here today by sitting down at this table and writing my heart out, bleeding out my soul in these words. My body feels so dirty and so worn. It needs to rest. It needs to ignore, but I cannot let it. This part of me, the part of Me here that is closer to the True Me, must stay in absolute control at all times. So the other part of Me must take over as I journey toward my inner self to answer these plaguing questions.
I need those answers, because everything looks so different now. Everything I’ve experienced seems all so impossible. I wouldn't know what to ask if I finally got to the core of me. I’d just sit here, wanting to cry but afraid that if I did succeed I won't be able to stop, or that I'd try only to discover that I cannot, for their is nothing left in me. So I don’t try. I just stare out into the space before me, as I let my hands rest on my face and be it’s crutch. My palms, sweaty from fear, dampen the forehead they are pressed up against. My oily fingers comb through my hair as they tremble.
I feel cold. I feel as if beads of cold sweat are slowly leaking out of every pore of my body. Such an eerie feeling encompasses me. I am so tired I cannot sleep. I am so fearful that I no longer care. I am so hateful that I find I love everything, even this hate, even this fear, even this state of mind which perplexes me so.
I see through the veil of nothingness, I penetrate the zero-point. I see the nothing as something as the rest of the world continues to see it as nothing. It is so surreal, it is so real. It is so disturbing to me that I have to enter back into the world that I hate in order to aide myself in the world I am just beginning to control my access to.
I refuse to give in, even now. Even in this time of darkness and deeply-rooted morbidity. I have tripped on a brick on the path I have chosen in this life to open a wound in which lies poison I must expel. I am looking for a cure, even if it is a way of finding out how to live with this spiritual or mental disease. I must know what it is, however. That quest alone has proven extremely difficult.
In short, I am different, I am an outcast. And I still feel dirty. I feel dirty inside and out. I cannot halt this. I cannot stop anything that is happening. It happens because it must, I am here because I am. Nothing more is to it, no more lies in it. It is merely so. Why. I find this more an answer than a question, for it always comes to that: Why. You ask a question and you get no answer in return, only a deeper question. Soon you have to be satisfied with a lie, with hiding the deeper question in the falsification of an answer. No answers exist. They are such a crude invention of the mind.
Why does my mind do this? Why does my brain rant these things?
Why.
That's why.
This headache will not go away, and it must, for I must do work, important work, but I cannot think, cannot focus. What is happening to me?
This is killing me. What is This?
Maybe this is all This is.
(a Short Glimpse
into Insanity),
by rewired,
circa 1997.
“The clinical picture of a person who has been reduced to elemental concerns of survival [for prolonged periods] is still frequently mistaken for a portrait of the victim's underlying character. Concepts of personality organization developed under ordinary circumstances are applied to victims without any understanding of the corrosion of personality that occurs under conditions of prolonged terror.”
-- Judith Herman.
This is disorientation of the soul. This is loosing yourself to find yourself.
How would you deal with it if your days and nights blended together like this? How would you feel if, to you, it seemed as if had just been a really long and bad day when in truth a whole two years had gone by? This, you would realize, is the only true hell - the pain of not knowing, but having full and constant awareness of your own ignorance; the pain of knowing only that what did seem to be true didn't actually make much sense at all.
The thoughts that dominate the kingdom of chaos I cradle in my cranium: how do I handle it all? There was a time long ago - and if I try really hard, I can almost remember what it felt like - when I sat on the throne of this land as it’s king. I was overthrown, however. Who knows who’s in control now? Was I ever really in control at all? I just walk on in the darkness of my mind until those thoughts start chasing me again, and those emotions begin to pull me down.
People have a hard time with this, I’ve noticed. They cannot face their pain, stare directly into it’s eyes with a hope for understanding, as I face mine here today by sitting down at this table and writing my heart out, bleeding out my soul in these words. My body feels so dirty and so worn. It needs to rest. It needs to ignore, but I cannot let it. This part of me, the part of Me here that is closer to the True Me, must stay in absolute control at all times. So the other part of Me must take over as I journey toward my inner self to answer these plaguing questions.
I need those answers, because everything looks so different now. Everything I’ve experienced seems all so impossible. I wouldn't know what to ask if I finally got to the core of me. I’d just sit here, wanting to cry but afraid that if I did succeed I won't be able to stop, or that I'd try only to discover that I cannot, for their is nothing left in me. So I don’t try. I just stare out into the space before me, as I let my hands rest on my face and be it’s crutch. My palms, sweaty from fear, dampen the forehead they are pressed up against. My oily fingers comb through my hair as they tremble.
I feel cold. I feel as if beads of cold sweat are slowly leaking out of every pore of my body. Such an eerie feeling encompasses me. I am so tired I cannot sleep. I am so fearful that I no longer care. I am so hateful that I find I love everything, even this hate, even this fear, even this state of mind which perplexes me so.
I see through the veil of nothingness, I penetrate the zero-point. I see the nothing as something as the rest of the world continues to see it as nothing. It is so surreal, it is so real. It is so disturbing to me that I have to enter back into the world that I hate in order to aide myself in the world I am just beginning to control my access to.
I refuse to give in, even now. Even in this time of darkness and deeply-rooted morbidity. I have tripped on a brick on the path I have chosen in this life to open a wound in which lies poison I must expel. I am looking for a cure, even if it is a way of finding out how to live with this spiritual or mental disease. I must know what it is, however. That quest alone has proven extremely difficult.
In short, I am different, I am an outcast. And I still feel dirty. I feel dirty inside and out. I cannot halt this. I cannot stop anything that is happening. It happens because it must, I am here because I am. Nothing more is to it, no more lies in it. It is merely so. Why. I find this more an answer than a question, for it always comes to that: Why. You ask a question and you get no answer in return, only a deeper question. Soon you have to be satisfied with a lie, with hiding the deeper question in the falsification of an answer. No answers exist. They are such a crude invention of the mind.
Why does my mind do this? Why does my brain rant these things?
Why.
That's why.
This headache will not go away, and it must, for I must do work, important work, but I cannot think, cannot focus. What is happening to me?
This is killing me. What is This?
Maybe this is all This is.
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