ForEverAfter
Ex-Bluelighter
- Joined
- Jan 16, 2012
- Messages
- 2,836
3:36 pm
Extremely depressed today. The most depressed I have ever been; and, I am not stranger to melancholy. I take three caps of mushrooms, containing approximately 1.8 grams of dried Psilocybe Subs. Need to go to the supermarket to get some supplies.
3:55 pm
Walking to the liquor store is incredibly difficult. My legs don't want to move. I walk slower, and slower, until – finally – I stop. My eyes are half open. I look like I'm high, but I'm not. I've had two standard drinks today. That's it. But I look like I'm nodding. The depression has been increasing since I woke up. It is pushing me down into the concrete. I want to drop to my knees and scream, then lie down in the gutter until the rain washes me away.
I keep walking, forcing myself like a man starving to death in a desert. It feels like walking through the snow. Like I'm fighting all the elements, simultaneously. I want to cry, but what's the point? I'm too depressed to cry. I would welcome tears, at this point. At least that's a normal reaction. Hopeful tears. Human tears. I wish I was sad. Sadness, in comparison to this, is bliss. Sadness is nothing.
Depression is nothing, in comparison to this. I've met people who take anti-depressants; and, talked to them about it. From my observations, most people who are “depressed” are – actually – just sad. They don't know what depression is. Similarly, those who are genuinely depressed don't understand melancholy. I'm not trying to win. I'm just putting it out there, that shit gets worse.
If you're sad, consider yourself lucky.
4:15 pm
I sit down at the tram stop, with my groceries, beside some guy drinking pre-mixed bourbon. Pull out a bottle of triple-distilled Smirnoff. Pull out a bottle of orange juice. Swig from each bottle, alternatively; I mix screwdrivers in my mouth. When there's enough room in the OJ bottle, I pour a third of the vodka in. Close it, shake it up. Cars idling at the traffic lights look at me. I catch them looking, and – one by one – they look away. I drink, greedily, from the screwdriver mix. Can hardly taste the vodka. Perfect. This is my new technique.
People drink beer, which dehydrates you. I have to drink roughly a cup of water per beer in order to remain hydrated. And, realistically, I'm not going to do that. So now I drink the water with the alcohol. It's the only way to ensure that I get the right amount of fluids. Vodka, and other clear spirits, are the least detremental to my health – for whatever reason. If I drink seven parts orange juice, to every one part vodka, I don't have hangovers. And I get my vitamins for the day.
4:35 pm
I get home. Walking the short distance from the tram stop to my front door is incredibly difficult. I imagine myself collapsing beside my letterbox. This is the incentive to keep my going. Once I get on my property I can just collapse to the ground and scream. But, I don't. Again, I think what's the point. I stand there, halfway down my driveway, for about five minutes – thinking, what's the fucking point of going inside. What's the point of drinking. I consider smashing the vodka against the brick wall of my living room. But, there's no point in doing that either.
I am so broken, it is ridiculous.
4:51 pm
I think I can feel the mushrooms, but it's difficult to differentiate between the early effects of psilocybin and the physical symptoms of melancholy. The pharmacy in my brain is releasing something into my bloodstream. I am unconciously poisoning myself. Whatever it is, it burns through my veins. It destroys every motivation I have. Feels like I'm being squashed into the ground. Like there's this weight on me, pushing me down into the grass. Into the concrete. Into the gutter. And why shouldn't it? And why should I let it? And why write this? And why not? Why breathe? Why suffocate? Why live? Why die? Fucking why, I ask nobody. Why why?
It's exhausting to think, like this. There is no way out. No way to justify myself. Because why justify myself? No way to distract myself. Because why the fucking distractions?
I know the alcohol will not help, but I drink it anyway.
5:10 pm
Light a joint. Listening to Nick Drake; perfect melancholic music: it mixes with the depression, pulling me further down. I wallow “down there”, fantasizing about the floor. Fantasizing about my face in the carpet. Fantasizing about despair. About sadness. About anything other than this. I fantasize hopelessly, knowing full well that all my dreams will remain unfulfilled. That is the point of aspirations. To disappoint. We set them up, then watch them fall. Then we say, “Oh, poor me.”
We chase infinity; we are starving mules dangling imaginary carrots against the horizon.
Tomorrow will be okay; until tomorrow is today.
I walk outside to take a piss, the joint hanging out of my mouth, the smoke stinging my eyes, and look at the clouds. I couldn't be bothered inhaling. Because what's the point. But then, I think, what's the point in not inhaling. So I do. I inhale this burnt tobacco. This burnt marijuana. I inhale this shit, and I look at the clouds. My wife used to say that clouds were the brushstrokes of God. Every day, she said, was a new painting. I hated her for this.
The faithless hate those who believe, because – despite insisting, intellectually, that such assertions are illogical – they envy them. So I hated her, as clever people hate fools. I hated her for being so easily amused. I hated her because my amusement was, relatively, difficult. Because when I looked at the clouds, I saw nothing but a gaseous formation in the sky. Random. Meaningless.
I was always interested in the truth. The problem, as far as I see it, with the pursuit of the meaning of life. It's this. When most people look for answers, they limit themselves to explanations that justify the question. If the answer is that existence is hell, there's is no point in asking the question. It is better not to know. When they ask the question, they exclude hell as a possibility.
Heaven and hell, in the Biblical sense, exist for two reasons. The idea of reward is constant in religion. For Buddhists, there is karma. For Christians, there is heaven and hell. They are different interpretations of the same system. The answer to the question “What is the meaning of life?” has potential applications towards morality. That's what we think, before we know the answer. So, to the uninitiated, a spiritual quest is a moral quest. Those who claim to know the answer, and therefor know God, must also know what we “should” do.
Divinity is too often exploited. “God” is twisted into commandments. The divine is used as a tool to manipulate the masses into comformity. The Dalai Lama, if he is truly Holy, should divide his assets and use the money to feed the starving people of his country. The idea of saving Tibet, is absurd to me, considering the Tibetan Buddhist attitudes towards life. In particular their beliefs regarding materialism and the physical world. If life is suffering, the Dalia Lama should thank God he is now homeless. And, again, he should liquidate his assets and distribute them amongst the poor.
You think of Tibetan Monks, even Tibet in general, and you think spiritual enlightenment. Why? Not because they live in the mountains; because they're peaceful. Yet there were violent attacks by monks, during the original occupation. And, still to this day, they protest.
Politically, considering Tibetan Buddhism, they should not resist. I've always said there's no fucking point in resisting, in the first place, considering China's power. So, as far as I'm concerned, they should accept defeat: for practical reasons; and, so they don't end up contradicting their own ideologies. My point is, Tibetans are not enlightened. When you think of monks, don't automatically assume that – because they wear garbs and live in the mountains, and practice meditation – they are enlightened. Or, even, more enlightened than yourself.
It frustates me, that people living in Western society are incapable of being enlightened. Monastaries are as meaningless as apartment blocks. Enlightenment has nothing to do with your surroundings. And everything to do with them. Buddhists who believe fundamentally in Buddhism will never be as enlightened as the Buddha. Jews who believe fundamentally in Ezekiel will never be as enlightened as Ezekiel. Because: words are open to intrepretation. Doesn't matter what you write. There is no way to negate the divine's potential for exploitation.
That is why I should never mention the divine; never speak of it. Yet I do. Because to not do so would be to defy everything that is human about me. How can I possibly not tell people about this incredible thing I have discovered, even though I know that sharing it with them will only cause them and future people pain?
I want to create a religion that incorporates philosophies from all religions, including both karma and heaven/hell. If we understand that these things are analogies. Read: logical and linguistic interpretations of the divine, from prophets. Then maybe we can understand the truth.
But, what if the truth isn't meant to be known? If the pain of existence will just increase as I approach that state of true understanding. When my unconscious mind is able to explain and rationalize the divine things I have experienced.
Up to that final point, my “sanity” will continue to decrease.
Because I cannot be sane to know what I know.
Because sanity. Because intellectualism. Because the way we think is poison. It is the misinterpretation of divinity, passed through a game of power hungry Chinese whispers over thousands of years until it has lost all meaning. I'm not just talking about philosophies. I mean everything. Science. Art. Everything the human race has ever created. It's all indirect misinterpretations. The first guy to ever experience the divine. The first time he ever spoke to anyone about it, he created a tangent. Our species detached from the divine. Consciousness, said Neitchze, is the separation from the oneness of the universe. This is the divine. We, as a species, know nothing of it. Because we know it, we do not. And, we cannot. Because if we did, we would know that we are nothing. That we are floating, alone, outside the divine. Knowing that because we can know we cannot. That's my problem. I am trying to understand something that will shatter my entire existence as a physical being. I know that I should not know it. But since I already half know it, I am forced to continue. I keep thinking I'm too young. Like, I'd prefer it if this was happening to me at the age of seventy.
Let's say God exists, literally. There's a big guy in the clouds who can reach down and manipulate your lives with his magical fingers. As people, you can't see him. He's just there. Because if you could see him, this huge bearded giant rolling about in the sky, you'd freak the fuck out.
The reason Tibetans live in the mountains is because if you freak the fuck out in the mountains, nobody puts you in a mental institution. It's easier to reach enlightenment if you're a monk in the mountains in Tibet. It's impossible to reach enlightenement living in Western society. But, then, it's impossible to reach enlightenment anywhere. It's just us, chasing the infinite.
The only way to reach enlightenment is to devolve from human to animal. Our evolution renders us incapable. We can be more enlightened than others. But what's the point. That's the core of my depression, I guess. I'm at a breaking point. Maybe I'm being weak, but I'm questioning the entire journey. Is it a competition, or is it – like all of man's pursuits – meaningless. Should I be trying to find the answer to this question, or any question. Why do I need to know. And if I know, will I be satisfied? Intellectualism is an ignorant pursuit. Physicists are no different to monks. Both want to know the answers to questions they cannot comprehend. And then, there are always more quesitons. Because our concsiousness forces us to chase the infinte; us, knowing, following the unknown.
If I sin, am I tainted. Should I give up on morality. Should I commit myself to a life of sin. If I am pursuing this ideal of perfection, this Jesus, then why should I continue? I am born with sin. Meaning, mathematically, that I will never achieve a sinless life; meaning, that I am finite.
The Bible describes the faithful as fallible. And it describes the divine as infallible. The finite and the infinite. In human form. Mortal men on the ground, immortal men in the clouds. We are consistently, throughout mythology, provided with this image of unabtainable glory.
Spiderman is Jesus. All superheroes are. They don't sin. They have super powers. And everybody wants to be them. Little kids grow up wanting to be Batman. They end up being bouncers and accountants.
I wonder about my dreams sometimes. Dreams can be anything. There are no rules. Gravity doesn't apply. You can encounter aliens. You can turn inside out. Yet most people dream about real shit, more or less. You could be Batman in your dreams. But you're not. The unconscious mind isn't interested with ego shit. The unconcious mind doesn't hate itself. Because, by definition, according (indirectly) to Neitchze, the unconscious is not separate from the divine.
In life, we dream of the unobtainable; when we're asleep, we dream: reality.
Everything is pointless.
6:31 pm
I roll another meaningless joint. What a sad cliched existentialist fuck rambling on about himself and insisting that he doesn't care. I hate myself. I hate my meaningless joint. I smoke it. I ask myself why again, first. Why make us conscious, if we are supposed to deconstruct it?
Some dogs, you tie them up and they stay. Others'll bite at their collars, and free themselves. Then they get caught and replaced in homes. So you've got the same situation again. Still, the dogs escape. They escape and they get caught. And they escape, and they get caught.
I am a domesticated animal, and – like all animals who wag their tails and do tricks – I fucking hate you all. My collar separates me from my true state. And I long for my true state. I am not a happy prisoner. I'm fucking outraged. Every day, I want to kill people. Because you're all fucked. And it depresses me. How fucked you are. And how you don't know. And how unobtainable a goal it is for me, or anyone, to fix the world. I will die a failure. There is no question of success or failure. I will die a failure, because I do not set myself realistic goals. Because, by nature, we are blind. We only see where we have set foot before. I set myself impossible goals, because the pursuit of the impossible is the only thing we have ever known.
Survival is impossible.
6:58 pm
You know that little girl/boy who never stops asking “Why?” You know, that cliché. The parent answers the first couple of questions, before getting frustrated with having to explain everything.
Well, my brain works like that. Constantly. That is what it's like inside my head. I deconstruct everything one hundred percent of the time. When I run out of things to deconstruct, I go through memories. And I fuck them up, if necessary. If I can destroy a memory for a gram of truth, I will fuck that memory up. Doesn't matter if it's my wedding or my baptism. I will fuck it. I will fucking destroy it for truth. Because I need to know “Why?”
I need something that does not exist. It's the second level of addiction, existentialism. Is addiction, without the addiction. There is no reward. You just experience loss. Need. Constant need. Constant loss. Because, as Neitchze said, consciousness removes me from the divine. I mourn the divine, because I remember my birth. I remember the separation. I don't want to die, and return. No. I want to be unborn, and have never left.
Maybe, three and half thousand years from now, the conscious world will be enlightened. Regardless, this is a transitionary period. We are still conscious of the goal, those of us who can see it. We know how far away it is. And it pains us. Maybe not 'us'. It pains me that you're all so fucking ignorant.
In the dark ages, they used to lock people up for being enlightened.
Today, in Western society, they lock people up for being enlightened.
Fuck this world. The first time I watched Fight Club I recognized something that I had never seen before. It moved me. Because it explained, intellectually, how it's possible to both destroy the world and embrace it. I hate modernism. And post-modernism. And post-post-modernism. And post-post-post modernism. Blame the fucking academics for post-post-post-modernity. Fucking idiot academics. We are beyond labels. What the fuck good did labels ever do, anyway? Was cubism a step forward or a step backards? Seems like a narrow-minded way of looking at the world.
Fuck boundaries. Fuck movements. Fuck fucking post fucking modernism. I'm sick of idiots with arts degress speaking nothing like it's something. Using jargon and making references to shit they once read. Fuck them, for being idiots. Aldous Huxley is a psuedo-intellectual. I am less intelligent than Huxley. I will never be as much of an intellectual as him, because I lack the motivation to read a whole bunch of “classic” shit and learn a whole bunch of words that nobody uses in everday conversation. Because they're all just second generation analysists.
You can either read an account of something that happened or you can experience it yourself.
If you call yourself a philosopher, then – by God – have a philosophy. Don't fucking ramble on about other people's philosophies. Have one. Torture yourself, rather than criticizing others for self inflicted wounds. Dig deep into yourself.
The answer to every question worth asking exists within yourself, not Neitchze.
If you are interested in philosophy, don't read Neitchze.
He would agree with me, on this; if you are interested in philosophy, just ask the question: “Why?”
(Then, ten years later, don't be surprised when your head explodes.)
7:32 pm
I smoke a joint, listening to Nine Inch Nails. The screwdriver mix is mostly finished. The mushrooms have kicked in, hard. I find myself in the face of a tidal wave of depression. It hits me. It smothers me, and the drugs. I sink into it, like a man stepping into quicksand. And it takes it's hold. And I sink. And the music plays. I feel it, the depression. It is calm, like quicksand after the acquisition. It settles, with you in it. And you, being both of you. You don't move. You remain still. Stagnant. Immaterial. And you hate your heart for beating. And the music plays.
The further it goes, the lonelier it gets. I remember letting go of people. Letting go of the idea of parties and relationships. That was a long time ago. I can relate to noone know. Some people are selectively open minded. You encounter people who are swingers, for example, despite the fact that nothing about their personalities would indicate that they messed around. So if you start exploring your sexuality and fucking around with multiple partners and different genders, you find out it's all meaningless. And you can find a lot of people who understand that sexually.
Problem is, I've deconstructed everything. I have worked like a machine, questioning everytyhing. I have made it my mission to break down every self-imposed human boundary that has ever existed. Now, I don't think I'm human. I'm approaching, at least, a state of inhumanity. I am, by human standards, regressing. Humans are wrong, though. Cause academia is bullshit. Intellectualism is bullshit. Human is bullshit. I'm sick of intellectualism and psuedo-intellectualism. And you can laugh to yourself, and say – defending your degress – that “this” is psuedo-intellectualism.
Tell me that I am an idiot. Tell me that Satre knows something I don't. Fuck it. I really don't care. This article. This trip report. This is psuedo-intellectualism. I hate it. I hate this trip report. Just as I hate myself. So cluck to yourselves and rejoice in the fact that you are brilliant; and, I... I am just bitter. Intellectuals are so fragile. They talk about ego so much, yet they can't help but feel bruised when it comes down to it. They verbalize the human struggle. Things we all know. They put them into fancy terms. They claim them. And then people study the claims, and make fancier terms. And so on, and so forth. In the end, there are only – really – the simple truths that spark all the uproar.
And the biggest simple truth, is the divine.
And the uproar; well, the uproar is us.
Look at it like this. You have a keyhole without a key. There's no way to pick it. There's no way to force the door open. The only thing you can do is calibrate and re-calibrate. And keep trying. This constant failure. This is life. We are statistically bound to failure. We will always fail. We are a tiny fraction of a failed experiment, surrounded by countless other failed experiments.
An infinite number of monkeys writing on an infinite number of typewriters will one day write the works of William Shakespeare. Who, if you don't know, is the most over-rated writers of all time. And he didn't really exist. Rather, he was devised by a bunch of high-thinking underpaid artists who spent their collective lives anonymously establishing themselves as the “genius” or our times.
Kurt Cobain is more meaningful to me than Shakespeare will ever be. I love Kurt. I love the shotgun blast to the head. Nice way to go out. Giving him the benefit of the doubt. I don't think he gave a shit about what people thought of him. Or, maybe, he hated that people had a perception of him. Hated his celebrity. Either way, he wasn't consumed by it. Suicide is an appropriate response for a modern celebrity. Tom Cruise – the product, not the person – should want to kill himself.
It's not Tom's fault, that fat middle aged women fantasize about touching his asshole. But they do. Millions of fat women have thought about pleasing Mr. Cruise. The networks, and the producers, are filling a niche. It is virtual prostititution, essentially. The acts he commits in fantasy, would absolutely disgust him in reality. Since he doesn't have to witness the fantasies, he lets his image go. He is his own image pimp. That is why he should want to die. Because he is a self-made whore with no excuse other than gluttony. Products are evil. McDonald's is evil. Tom Cruise is evil.
Celebrity is disgusting. Things that are legal fester to eternity. It should be illegal for the press to stalk celebrities. But then there's this absolute value that the United States exploits. Freedom of Speech. Freedom of the Press. In theory, perfectly innocent. But they're statutes that are constantly exploited. The way celebrities are treated is disgusting.
People say to me, about A-list actors, “Well they earn millions of dollars...” (as if that accounts for the amount of abuse they have to put up with). Is that how we should fucking treat our artists? By asking them questions about their lovers children and what kind of shoes they wear?
Fuck celebrity. If you read celebrity shit, fuck you. If you love celebrities, fuck you and your mother. If you have posters of celebrities on your walls fuck you and your mother and your mothers mother. Neitchze, and I hate Neitchze, would agree with me that followers cann't be leaders.
Stop the fucking celebrity shit. I'm so sick of hearing these abbreviated nicknames like K-Lo or Z-Queue or whatever the fucking shit. God damn I want to kill them. And I love feeling rage, in comparison to feeling severe depression. This rage. These mushrooms. This vodka. It feels good. And now, I curse myself for feeling good and look into the carpet. Deep into the carpet. The fibres are vibrating. I drink my screwdriver.
8:24 pm
I take a swig from the dregs of my screwdriver set. Tastes strong. It's always strongest at the source. I flick my tongue against the philip's head. I drink, like it's nectar.
The problem with most drug users is quantity.
Heroin is fine, assuming you have the money to support your habit. Issues don't really become issues until you don't have the cash to make them go away. Heroin is a sustainable thing, indefinitely.
Marijuana, same thing.
The problem with running out of weed, is running out of weed. As an alcoholic and a pot-head, I've noticed a strange correlation. When you run out weed. Or when you run out of alchol. You either: get more; or, you go to sleep. Pot-heads, alcoholics, crack-addicts, whiz-merchants... it's all the same. When you think “I'm running out,” you get all stressed. So what if you never run out?
I stopped buying small quantities of marijuana, a long time ago. I know people who purchase small quantities every three or four days. Serious pot smokers, who go through maybe two or three grams in 24 yours. Twice a week. Or twelve times a month. Or wahtever it is. They keep scoring. And they get fucking pissed off if nobody has any bud for a week. Personally, I don't have that problem. Because instead of buying a six-pack, I buy a slab.
Yet, with alcohol, I'm still all fucked up.
I'll go to the liquor store and grab six drinks, knowing that I'll be back for another six just to defy the original restriction. Alcohol makes me an animal. As a sober creature, if I decide “Well, I'd better only have six”... I'm going to fucking drink thirty. And spit the thirtieth into your face.
When I commit to alcohol. When I buy too much to drink in one night, I actually end up drinking less. It's weird. But it kind of applies to legalization, in general. Take restrictions away, and are people more or less likely to indulge? Is temptation tempting because it is forbidden, or because it is – inherently – tempting? I think maybe I'd be a lot better off if I accept the fact that I'm an alcoholic. Rather than fighting it. Being an alcohlic can't be that bad.
8:38 pm
I go through to the other room and grab a handful of bud. I can't find a pair of scissors, immediately, upon returning to my chair. So I grind up the bud between my fingers. Island style. Takes two minutes to pulverize them into powder. Then I see the scissors. And I'm glad that I didn't see them straight away. Useless creations. I can do without it all. I want electricity to be taken away. I want this world to me destroyed. Because it's all fucking gluttony. And, fuck you all. You capatlist cunts. I will survive. My pot supply is never threatened. Never. Because I buy all I need for a month.
I should do the same with alcohol. Just buy a bottle of whiskey and a bottle of scotch and a bottle of vodka, every week. Plus a slab of beer. That should hold me. Fuck it. Why not buy a barrel of whiskey? How incredible it would be to have a never-ending supply. If I had a basement full of priceless wine. Oh. Oh, my God. I would fuck that basement up. And I would love every one of those wines. The way they were meant to be loved.
Unfortunately, alcohol is expensive.
Because it's legal, really. It's expensive.
If you buy in bulk, you can get half price heroin. You can get a quarter price heroin. You can get a tenth price heroin. You can't commercially buy half price beer in bulk. If I could buy wholesale vodka, I would. I'd buy a barrel of vodka. I seriously would. Sometimes I grind up like 5 grams of weed in a coffee grinder, and I'll spill some onto the carpet. And I'll just instantly think fuck it. Like I could give a shit about half a gram of weed or whatever the fuck it is. Weed is like alcohol. They're similar drugs. Marijuana is slightly better, but they're both ghetto drugs. They're both shit.
It's organic crack, weed; it comes from nature, but it's fucked.
Incidentally, so is rat poison.
Anyway, having long since run out of screwdriver mix, I've had to move on to the remainder of my supplies. To say I can't afford orange juice is bullshit. I limit myself to a couple fo litres of fresh juice per day for mixers. I think that's fair enough. No point overdoing Vitamin C. We aren't fucking chipmunks. So, anyway, I started on the mixers. Vodka mixed with Lime & Tonic is what I'm currently going with. Mixed very strong. Because I will eat your children. Seems to be working pretty well for us so far. Heavy buzz. Fuck your mother. I remember her. I want to kill her. What's her name, again? I don't give a fuck. I want to use her head as a football.
I have too much vodka to drink, so the night will go on forever. If I stay away until three o'clock in the morning, which I will, there will still be vodka available. What a fucking glorious thought.
I've had this bit going on in my head about “chicks drinks”. Seems to me that we, guys, drink whiskey and beer as a kind of endurance test. Like we drink this foul tasting shit, because we're tough. Well I'm sick of it. I've proven myself a thousand times anyway. I'm sick of bad tasting alcohol. So all my drinks are fucking awesome now. Drinking a bottle of screwdriver is a thousand times more preferable to drinking ten beers. I think I'm done with beer. I'd much rather grab a vodka mixer. Or a wine mixer. I really don't care what the male population thinks of me.
Some of you metro types might think “Whatever.”
And fair enough. What I aim to do, though, is to not give a fuck about anything. Total ego loss. I should be able to walk naked down the street. Not like a streaker. Like nothing is even happening. That is ego loss. That is what I aim for. And, honestly, if it wasn't for legal restrictions, I'd be doing it. So, I guess, thank God for the law - if you're repressed, and the sight of an uncircumcised penis might alarm you. Funny how many people get erections on public transport.
I don't know who to trust. There's the weed and the alcohol. There's the cigarettes; and the gays and the straights. In the end, I guess, I just like my orientation to float – undiagnosed. That's what's beautul to me.
The unknown.
Everything outside my understanding.
Everything, outside my grasp.
Sitcoms teach you that drunk people are idiots. What they don't tell you is that drunk people wrotesome of the most influential books of our time. Because drink is torture, self-inflicted. And, because, torture is pain. And pain is character.
Take a spoilt child. They know nothing, because they have everything.
Then, take the opposite. A slave. Do they know everything because they have nothing?
Is a professor wiser than a man who lives in a hut.
That is my question. It is an honest, ernest question. I am a rational man. I am not an idiot. My IQ is above 150, as of 2011. So if I haven't burst a large number of brain cells since then I must basically still be a genius. I read Virginia Woolf, and I just think “Yeah, that's a good book.” or “No, it's not.”
Those are the two reactions to a piece of literary work.
Supposed “ignorance” doesn't even come into play. If you don't like it, you don't fucking like it. Your opinion isn't invalid, simply because you haven't had a formal education. And, the principles aren't beyond you either. It's all simple. There is only the simple, in terms of philosophy.
So stand up to them and say fuck you. Because these academics, they don't know shit. I've had along discussions with them. This isn't theory. It's based on experiments. These academics, they're brainwashed by academia. They're no different to Christians, brainwashed by organised religion. You get to the same conversational flux with them. That point.
Well, fuck them.
Honestly.
Fuck them.
This is this, or that is that. We know this is this, you fucking idiot! We know that that is that! God, what is fucking wrong with you people?!? Fucking God Damned Academics!
10:39 pm
Eric Clapton asks me if there is time for pity, in the falling rain.
Outside my window, he says.
Is a tree
Outside my window.
Is a tree.
…
Goodnight.
I love you.
Extremely depressed today. The most depressed I have ever been; and, I am not stranger to melancholy. I take three caps of mushrooms, containing approximately 1.8 grams of dried Psilocybe Subs. Need to go to the supermarket to get some supplies.
3:55 pm
Walking to the liquor store is incredibly difficult. My legs don't want to move. I walk slower, and slower, until – finally – I stop. My eyes are half open. I look like I'm high, but I'm not. I've had two standard drinks today. That's it. But I look like I'm nodding. The depression has been increasing since I woke up. It is pushing me down into the concrete. I want to drop to my knees and scream, then lie down in the gutter until the rain washes me away.
I keep walking, forcing myself like a man starving to death in a desert. It feels like walking through the snow. Like I'm fighting all the elements, simultaneously. I want to cry, but what's the point? I'm too depressed to cry. I would welcome tears, at this point. At least that's a normal reaction. Hopeful tears. Human tears. I wish I was sad. Sadness, in comparison to this, is bliss. Sadness is nothing.
Depression is nothing, in comparison to this. I've met people who take anti-depressants; and, talked to them about it. From my observations, most people who are “depressed” are – actually – just sad. They don't know what depression is. Similarly, those who are genuinely depressed don't understand melancholy. I'm not trying to win. I'm just putting it out there, that shit gets worse.
If you're sad, consider yourself lucky.
4:15 pm
I sit down at the tram stop, with my groceries, beside some guy drinking pre-mixed bourbon. Pull out a bottle of triple-distilled Smirnoff. Pull out a bottle of orange juice. Swig from each bottle, alternatively; I mix screwdrivers in my mouth. When there's enough room in the OJ bottle, I pour a third of the vodka in. Close it, shake it up. Cars idling at the traffic lights look at me. I catch them looking, and – one by one – they look away. I drink, greedily, from the screwdriver mix. Can hardly taste the vodka. Perfect. This is my new technique.
People drink beer, which dehydrates you. I have to drink roughly a cup of water per beer in order to remain hydrated. And, realistically, I'm not going to do that. So now I drink the water with the alcohol. It's the only way to ensure that I get the right amount of fluids. Vodka, and other clear spirits, are the least detremental to my health – for whatever reason. If I drink seven parts orange juice, to every one part vodka, I don't have hangovers. And I get my vitamins for the day.
4:35 pm
I get home. Walking the short distance from the tram stop to my front door is incredibly difficult. I imagine myself collapsing beside my letterbox. This is the incentive to keep my going. Once I get on my property I can just collapse to the ground and scream. But, I don't. Again, I think what's the point. I stand there, halfway down my driveway, for about five minutes – thinking, what's the fucking point of going inside. What's the point of drinking. I consider smashing the vodka against the brick wall of my living room. But, there's no point in doing that either.
I am so broken, it is ridiculous.
4:51 pm
I think I can feel the mushrooms, but it's difficult to differentiate between the early effects of psilocybin and the physical symptoms of melancholy. The pharmacy in my brain is releasing something into my bloodstream. I am unconciously poisoning myself. Whatever it is, it burns through my veins. It destroys every motivation I have. Feels like I'm being squashed into the ground. Like there's this weight on me, pushing me down into the grass. Into the concrete. Into the gutter. And why shouldn't it? And why should I let it? And why write this? And why not? Why breathe? Why suffocate? Why live? Why die? Fucking why, I ask nobody. Why why?
It's exhausting to think, like this. There is no way out. No way to justify myself. Because why justify myself? No way to distract myself. Because why the fucking distractions?
I know the alcohol will not help, but I drink it anyway.
5:10 pm
Light a joint. Listening to Nick Drake; perfect melancholic music: it mixes with the depression, pulling me further down. I wallow “down there”, fantasizing about the floor. Fantasizing about my face in the carpet. Fantasizing about despair. About sadness. About anything other than this. I fantasize hopelessly, knowing full well that all my dreams will remain unfulfilled. That is the point of aspirations. To disappoint. We set them up, then watch them fall. Then we say, “Oh, poor me.”
We chase infinity; we are starving mules dangling imaginary carrots against the horizon.
Tomorrow will be okay; until tomorrow is today.
I walk outside to take a piss, the joint hanging out of my mouth, the smoke stinging my eyes, and look at the clouds. I couldn't be bothered inhaling. Because what's the point. But then, I think, what's the point in not inhaling. So I do. I inhale this burnt tobacco. This burnt marijuana. I inhale this shit, and I look at the clouds. My wife used to say that clouds were the brushstrokes of God. Every day, she said, was a new painting. I hated her for this.
The faithless hate those who believe, because – despite insisting, intellectually, that such assertions are illogical – they envy them. So I hated her, as clever people hate fools. I hated her for being so easily amused. I hated her because my amusement was, relatively, difficult. Because when I looked at the clouds, I saw nothing but a gaseous formation in the sky. Random. Meaningless.
I was always interested in the truth. The problem, as far as I see it, with the pursuit of the meaning of life. It's this. When most people look for answers, they limit themselves to explanations that justify the question. If the answer is that existence is hell, there's is no point in asking the question. It is better not to know. When they ask the question, they exclude hell as a possibility.
Heaven and hell, in the Biblical sense, exist for two reasons. The idea of reward is constant in religion. For Buddhists, there is karma. For Christians, there is heaven and hell. They are different interpretations of the same system. The answer to the question “What is the meaning of life?” has potential applications towards morality. That's what we think, before we know the answer. So, to the uninitiated, a spiritual quest is a moral quest. Those who claim to know the answer, and therefor know God, must also know what we “should” do.
Divinity is too often exploited. “God” is twisted into commandments. The divine is used as a tool to manipulate the masses into comformity. The Dalai Lama, if he is truly Holy, should divide his assets and use the money to feed the starving people of his country. The idea of saving Tibet, is absurd to me, considering the Tibetan Buddhist attitudes towards life. In particular their beliefs regarding materialism and the physical world. If life is suffering, the Dalia Lama should thank God he is now homeless. And, again, he should liquidate his assets and distribute them amongst the poor.
You think of Tibetan Monks, even Tibet in general, and you think spiritual enlightenment. Why? Not because they live in the mountains; because they're peaceful. Yet there were violent attacks by monks, during the original occupation. And, still to this day, they protest.
Politically, considering Tibetan Buddhism, they should not resist. I've always said there's no fucking point in resisting, in the first place, considering China's power. So, as far as I'm concerned, they should accept defeat: for practical reasons; and, so they don't end up contradicting their own ideologies. My point is, Tibetans are not enlightened. When you think of monks, don't automatically assume that – because they wear garbs and live in the mountains, and practice meditation – they are enlightened. Or, even, more enlightened than yourself.
It frustates me, that people living in Western society are incapable of being enlightened. Monastaries are as meaningless as apartment blocks. Enlightenment has nothing to do with your surroundings. And everything to do with them. Buddhists who believe fundamentally in Buddhism will never be as enlightened as the Buddha. Jews who believe fundamentally in Ezekiel will never be as enlightened as Ezekiel. Because: words are open to intrepretation. Doesn't matter what you write. There is no way to negate the divine's potential for exploitation.
That is why I should never mention the divine; never speak of it. Yet I do. Because to not do so would be to defy everything that is human about me. How can I possibly not tell people about this incredible thing I have discovered, even though I know that sharing it with them will only cause them and future people pain?
I want to create a religion that incorporates philosophies from all religions, including both karma and heaven/hell. If we understand that these things are analogies. Read: logical and linguistic interpretations of the divine, from prophets. Then maybe we can understand the truth.
But, what if the truth isn't meant to be known? If the pain of existence will just increase as I approach that state of true understanding. When my unconscious mind is able to explain and rationalize the divine things I have experienced.
Up to that final point, my “sanity” will continue to decrease.
Because I cannot be sane to know what I know.
Because sanity. Because intellectualism. Because the way we think is poison. It is the misinterpretation of divinity, passed through a game of power hungry Chinese whispers over thousands of years until it has lost all meaning. I'm not just talking about philosophies. I mean everything. Science. Art. Everything the human race has ever created. It's all indirect misinterpretations. The first guy to ever experience the divine. The first time he ever spoke to anyone about it, he created a tangent. Our species detached from the divine. Consciousness, said Neitchze, is the separation from the oneness of the universe. This is the divine. We, as a species, know nothing of it. Because we know it, we do not. And, we cannot. Because if we did, we would know that we are nothing. That we are floating, alone, outside the divine. Knowing that because we can know we cannot. That's my problem. I am trying to understand something that will shatter my entire existence as a physical being. I know that I should not know it. But since I already half know it, I am forced to continue. I keep thinking I'm too young. Like, I'd prefer it if this was happening to me at the age of seventy.
Let's say God exists, literally. There's a big guy in the clouds who can reach down and manipulate your lives with his magical fingers. As people, you can't see him. He's just there. Because if you could see him, this huge bearded giant rolling about in the sky, you'd freak the fuck out.
The reason Tibetans live in the mountains is because if you freak the fuck out in the mountains, nobody puts you in a mental institution. It's easier to reach enlightenment if you're a monk in the mountains in Tibet. It's impossible to reach enlightenement living in Western society. But, then, it's impossible to reach enlightenment anywhere. It's just us, chasing the infinite.
The only way to reach enlightenment is to devolve from human to animal. Our evolution renders us incapable. We can be more enlightened than others. But what's the point. That's the core of my depression, I guess. I'm at a breaking point. Maybe I'm being weak, but I'm questioning the entire journey. Is it a competition, or is it – like all of man's pursuits – meaningless. Should I be trying to find the answer to this question, or any question. Why do I need to know. And if I know, will I be satisfied? Intellectualism is an ignorant pursuit. Physicists are no different to monks. Both want to know the answers to questions they cannot comprehend. And then, there are always more quesitons. Because our concsiousness forces us to chase the infinte; us, knowing, following the unknown.
If I sin, am I tainted. Should I give up on morality. Should I commit myself to a life of sin. If I am pursuing this ideal of perfection, this Jesus, then why should I continue? I am born with sin. Meaning, mathematically, that I will never achieve a sinless life; meaning, that I am finite.
The Bible describes the faithful as fallible. And it describes the divine as infallible. The finite and the infinite. In human form. Mortal men on the ground, immortal men in the clouds. We are consistently, throughout mythology, provided with this image of unabtainable glory.
Spiderman is Jesus. All superheroes are. They don't sin. They have super powers. And everybody wants to be them. Little kids grow up wanting to be Batman. They end up being bouncers and accountants.
I wonder about my dreams sometimes. Dreams can be anything. There are no rules. Gravity doesn't apply. You can encounter aliens. You can turn inside out. Yet most people dream about real shit, more or less. You could be Batman in your dreams. But you're not. The unconscious mind isn't interested with ego shit. The unconcious mind doesn't hate itself. Because, by definition, according (indirectly) to Neitchze, the unconscious is not separate from the divine.
In life, we dream of the unobtainable; when we're asleep, we dream: reality.
Everything is pointless.
6:31 pm
I roll another meaningless joint. What a sad cliched existentialist fuck rambling on about himself and insisting that he doesn't care. I hate myself. I hate my meaningless joint. I smoke it. I ask myself why again, first. Why make us conscious, if we are supposed to deconstruct it?
Some dogs, you tie them up and they stay. Others'll bite at their collars, and free themselves. Then they get caught and replaced in homes. So you've got the same situation again. Still, the dogs escape. They escape and they get caught. And they escape, and they get caught.
I am a domesticated animal, and – like all animals who wag their tails and do tricks – I fucking hate you all. My collar separates me from my true state. And I long for my true state. I am not a happy prisoner. I'm fucking outraged. Every day, I want to kill people. Because you're all fucked. And it depresses me. How fucked you are. And how you don't know. And how unobtainable a goal it is for me, or anyone, to fix the world. I will die a failure. There is no question of success or failure. I will die a failure, because I do not set myself realistic goals. Because, by nature, we are blind. We only see where we have set foot before. I set myself impossible goals, because the pursuit of the impossible is the only thing we have ever known.
Survival is impossible.
6:58 pm
You know that little girl/boy who never stops asking “Why?” You know, that cliché. The parent answers the first couple of questions, before getting frustrated with having to explain everything.
Well, my brain works like that. Constantly. That is what it's like inside my head. I deconstruct everything one hundred percent of the time. When I run out of things to deconstruct, I go through memories. And I fuck them up, if necessary. If I can destroy a memory for a gram of truth, I will fuck that memory up. Doesn't matter if it's my wedding or my baptism. I will fuck it. I will fucking destroy it for truth. Because I need to know “Why?”
I need something that does not exist. It's the second level of addiction, existentialism. Is addiction, without the addiction. There is no reward. You just experience loss. Need. Constant need. Constant loss. Because, as Neitchze said, consciousness removes me from the divine. I mourn the divine, because I remember my birth. I remember the separation. I don't want to die, and return. No. I want to be unborn, and have never left.
Maybe, three and half thousand years from now, the conscious world will be enlightened. Regardless, this is a transitionary period. We are still conscious of the goal, those of us who can see it. We know how far away it is. And it pains us. Maybe not 'us'. It pains me that you're all so fucking ignorant.
In the dark ages, they used to lock people up for being enlightened.
Today, in Western society, they lock people up for being enlightened.
Fuck this world. The first time I watched Fight Club I recognized something that I had never seen before. It moved me. Because it explained, intellectually, how it's possible to both destroy the world and embrace it. I hate modernism. And post-modernism. And post-post-modernism. And post-post-post modernism. Blame the fucking academics for post-post-post-modernity. Fucking idiot academics. We are beyond labels. What the fuck good did labels ever do, anyway? Was cubism a step forward or a step backards? Seems like a narrow-minded way of looking at the world.
Fuck boundaries. Fuck movements. Fuck fucking post fucking modernism. I'm sick of idiots with arts degress speaking nothing like it's something. Using jargon and making references to shit they once read. Fuck them, for being idiots. Aldous Huxley is a psuedo-intellectual. I am less intelligent than Huxley. I will never be as much of an intellectual as him, because I lack the motivation to read a whole bunch of “classic” shit and learn a whole bunch of words that nobody uses in everday conversation. Because they're all just second generation analysists.
You can either read an account of something that happened or you can experience it yourself.
If you call yourself a philosopher, then – by God – have a philosophy. Don't fucking ramble on about other people's philosophies. Have one. Torture yourself, rather than criticizing others for self inflicted wounds. Dig deep into yourself.
The answer to every question worth asking exists within yourself, not Neitchze.
If you are interested in philosophy, don't read Neitchze.
He would agree with me, on this; if you are interested in philosophy, just ask the question: “Why?”
(Then, ten years later, don't be surprised when your head explodes.)
7:32 pm
I smoke a joint, listening to Nine Inch Nails. The screwdriver mix is mostly finished. The mushrooms have kicked in, hard. I find myself in the face of a tidal wave of depression. It hits me. It smothers me, and the drugs. I sink into it, like a man stepping into quicksand. And it takes it's hold. And I sink. And the music plays. I feel it, the depression. It is calm, like quicksand after the acquisition. It settles, with you in it. And you, being both of you. You don't move. You remain still. Stagnant. Immaterial. And you hate your heart for beating. And the music plays.
The further it goes, the lonelier it gets. I remember letting go of people. Letting go of the idea of parties and relationships. That was a long time ago. I can relate to noone know. Some people are selectively open minded. You encounter people who are swingers, for example, despite the fact that nothing about their personalities would indicate that they messed around. So if you start exploring your sexuality and fucking around with multiple partners and different genders, you find out it's all meaningless. And you can find a lot of people who understand that sexually.
Problem is, I've deconstructed everything. I have worked like a machine, questioning everytyhing. I have made it my mission to break down every self-imposed human boundary that has ever existed. Now, I don't think I'm human. I'm approaching, at least, a state of inhumanity. I am, by human standards, regressing. Humans are wrong, though. Cause academia is bullshit. Intellectualism is bullshit. Human is bullshit. I'm sick of intellectualism and psuedo-intellectualism. And you can laugh to yourself, and say – defending your degress – that “this” is psuedo-intellectualism.
Tell me that I am an idiot. Tell me that Satre knows something I don't. Fuck it. I really don't care. This article. This trip report. This is psuedo-intellectualism. I hate it. I hate this trip report. Just as I hate myself. So cluck to yourselves and rejoice in the fact that you are brilliant; and, I... I am just bitter. Intellectuals are so fragile. They talk about ego so much, yet they can't help but feel bruised when it comes down to it. They verbalize the human struggle. Things we all know. They put them into fancy terms. They claim them. And then people study the claims, and make fancier terms. And so on, and so forth. In the end, there are only – really – the simple truths that spark all the uproar.
And the biggest simple truth, is the divine.
And the uproar; well, the uproar is us.
Look at it like this. You have a keyhole without a key. There's no way to pick it. There's no way to force the door open. The only thing you can do is calibrate and re-calibrate. And keep trying. This constant failure. This is life. We are statistically bound to failure. We will always fail. We are a tiny fraction of a failed experiment, surrounded by countless other failed experiments.
An infinite number of monkeys writing on an infinite number of typewriters will one day write the works of William Shakespeare. Who, if you don't know, is the most over-rated writers of all time. And he didn't really exist. Rather, he was devised by a bunch of high-thinking underpaid artists who spent their collective lives anonymously establishing themselves as the “genius” or our times.
Kurt Cobain is more meaningful to me than Shakespeare will ever be. I love Kurt. I love the shotgun blast to the head. Nice way to go out. Giving him the benefit of the doubt. I don't think he gave a shit about what people thought of him. Or, maybe, he hated that people had a perception of him. Hated his celebrity. Either way, he wasn't consumed by it. Suicide is an appropriate response for a modern celebrity. Tom Cruise – the product, not the person – should want to kill himself.
It's not Tom's fault, that fat middle aged women fantasize about touching his asshole. But they do. Millions of fat women have thought about pleasing Mr. Cruise. The networks, and the producers, are filling a niche. It is virtual prostititution, essentially. The acts he commits in fantasy, would absolutely disgust him in reality. Since he doesn't have to witness the fantasies, he lets his image go. He is his own image pimp. That is why he should want to die. Because he is a self-made whore with no excuse other than gluttony. Products are evil. McDonald's is evil. Tom Cruise is evil.
Celebrity is disgusting. Things that are legal fester to eternity. It should be illegal for the press to stalk celebrities. But then there's this absolute value that the United States exploits. Freedom of Speech. Freedom of the Press. In theory, perfectly innocent. But they're statutes that are constantly exploited. The way celebrities are treated is disgusting.
People say to me, about A-list actors, “Well they earn millions of dollars...” (as if that accounts for the amount of abuse they have to put up with). Is that how we should fucking treat our artists? By asking them questions about their lovers children and what kind of shoes they wear?
Fuck celebrity. If you read celebrity shit, fuck you. If you love celebrities, fuck you and your mother. If you have posters of celebrities on your walls fuck you and your mother and your mothers mother. Neitchze, and I hate Neitchze, would agree with me that followers cann't be leaders.
Stop the fucking celebrity shit. I'm so sick of hearing these abbreviated nicknames like K-Lo or Z-Queue or whatever the fucking shit. God damn I want to kill them. And I love feeling rage, in comparison to feeling severe depression. This rage. These mushrooms. This vodka. It feels good. And now, I curse myself for feeling good and look into the carpet. Deep into the carpet. The fibres are vibrating. I drink my screwdriver.
8:24 pm
I take a swig from the dregs of my screwdriver set. Tastes strong. It's always strongest at the source. I flick my tongue against the philip's head. I drink, like it's nectar.
The problem with most drug users is quantity.
Heroin is fine, assuming you have the money to support your habit. Issues don't really become issues until you don't have the cash to make them go away. Heroin is a sustainable thing, indefinitely.
Marijuana, same thing.
The problem with running out of weed, is running out of weed. As an alcoholic and a pot-head, I've noticed a strange correlation. When you run out weed. Or when you run out of alchol. You either: get more; or, you go to sleep. Pot-heads, alcoholics, crack-addicts, whiz-merchants... it's all the same. When you think “I'm running out,” you get all stressed. So what if you never run out?
I stopped buying small quantities of marijuana, a long time ago. I know people who purchase small quantities every three or four days. Serious pot smokers, who go through maybe two or three grams in 24 yours. Twice a week. Or twelve times a month. Or wahtever it is. They keep scoring. And they get fucking pissed off if nobody has any bud for a week. Personally, I don't have that problem. Because instead of buying a six-pack, I buy a slab.
Yet, with alcohol, I'm still all fucked up.
I'll go to the liquor store and grab six drinks, knowing that I'll be back for another six just to defy the original restriction. Alcohol makes me an animal. As a sober creature, if I decide “Well, I'd better only have six”... I'm going to fucking drink thirty. And spit the thirtieth into your face.
When I commit to alcohol. When I buy too much to drink in one night, I actually end up drinking less. It's weird. But it kind of applies to legalization, in general. Take restrictions away, and are people more or less likely to indulge? Is temptation tempting because it is forbidden, or because it is – inherently – tempting? I think maybe I'd be a lot better off if I accept the fact that I'm an alcoholic. Rather than fighting it. Being an alcohlic can't be that bad.
8:38 pm
I go through to the other room and grab a handful of bud. I can't find a pair of scissors, immediately, upon returning to my chair. So I grind up the bud between my fingers. Island style. Takes two minutes to pulverize them into powder. Then I see the scissors. And I'm glad that I didn't see them straight away. Useless creations. I can do without it all. I want electricity to be taken away. I want this world to me destroyed. Because it's all fucking gluttony. And, fuck you all. You capatlist cunts. I will survive. My pot supply is never threatened. Never. Because I buy all I need for a month.
I should do the same with alcohol. Just buy a bottle of whiskey and a bottle of scotch and a bottle of vodka, every week. Plus a slab of beer. That should hold me. Fuck it. Why not buy a barrel of whiskey? How incredible it would be to have a never-ending supply. If I had a basement full of priceless wine. Oh. Oh, my God. I would fuck that basement up. And I would love every one of those wines. The way they were meant to be loved.
Unfortunately, alcohol is expensive.
Because it's legal, really. It's expensive.
If you buy in bulk, you can get half price heroin. You can get a quarter price heroin. You can get a tenth price heroin. You can't commercially buy half price beer in bulk. If I could buy wholesale vodka, I would. I'd buy a barrel of vodka. I seriously would. Sometimes I grind up like 5 grams of weed in a coffee grinder, and I'll spill some onto the carpet. And I'll just instantly think fuck it. Like I could give a shit about half a gram of weed or whatever the fuck it is. Weed is like alcohol. They're similar drugs. Marijuana is slightly better, but they're both ghetto drugs. They're both shit.
It's organic crack, weed; it comes from nature, but it's fucked.
Incidentally, so is rat poison.
Anyway, having long since run out of screwdriver mix, I've had to move on to the remainder of my supplies. To say I can't afford orange juice is bullshit. I limit myself to a couple fo litres of fresh juice per day for mixers. I think that's fair enough. No point overdoing Vitamin C. We aren't fucking chipmunks. So, anyway, I started on the mixers. Vodka mixed with Lime & Tonic is what I'm currently going with. Mixed very strong. Because I will eat your children. Seems to be working pretty well for us so far. Heavy buzz. Fuck your mother. I remember her. I want to kill her. What's her name, again? I don't give a fuck. I want to use her head as a football.
I have too much vodka to drink, so the night will go on forever. If I stay away until three o'clock in the morning, which I will, there will still be vodka available. What a fucking glorious thought.
I've had this bit going on in my head about “chicks drinks”. Seems to me that we, guys, drink whiskey and beer as a kind of endurance test. Like we drink this foul tasting shit, because we're tough. Well I'm sick of it. I've proven myself a thousand times anyway. I'm sick of bad tasting alcohol. So all my drinks are fucking awesome now. Drinking a bottle of screwdriver is a thousand times more preferable to drinking ten beers. I think I'm done with beer. I'd much rather grab a vodka mixer. Or a wine mixer. I really don't care what the male population thinks of me.
Some of you metro types might think “Whatever.”
And fair enough. What I aim to do, though, is to not give a fuck about anything. Total ego loss. I should be able to walk naked down the street. Not like a streaker. Like nothing is even happening. That is ego loss. That is what I aim for. And, honestly, if it wasn't for legal restrictions, I'd be doing it. So, I guess, thank God for the law - if you're repressed, and the sight of an uncircumcised penis might alarm you. Funny how many people get erections on public transport.
I don't know who to trust. There's the weed and the alcohol. There's the cigarettes; and the gays and the straights. In the end, I guess, I just like my orientation to float – undiagnosed. That's what's beautul to me.
The unknown.
Everything outside my understanding.
Everything, outside my grasp.
Sitcoms teach you that drunk people are idiots. What they don't tell you is that drunk people wrotesome of the most influential books of our time. Because drink is torture, self-inflicted. And, because, torture is pain. And pain is character.
Take a spoilt child. They know nothing, because they have everything.
Then, take the opposite. A slave. Do they know everything because they have nothing?
Is a professor wiser than a man who lives in a hut.
That is my question. It is an honest, ernest question. I am a rational man. I am not an idiot. My IQ is above 150, as of 2011. So if I haven't burst a large number of brain cells since then I must basically still be a genius. I read Virginia Woolf, and I just think “Yeah, that's a good book.” or “No, it's not.”
Those are the two reactions to a piece of literary work.
Supposed “ignorance” doesn't even come into play. If you don't like it, you don't fucking like it. Your opinion isn't invalid, simply because you haven't had a formal education. And, the principles aren't beyond you either. It's all simple. There is only the simple, in terms of philosophy.
So stand up to them and say fuck you. Because these academics, they don't know shit. I've had along discussions with them. This isn't theory. It's based on experiments. These academics, they're brainwashed by academia. They're no different to Christians, brainwashed by organised religion. You get to the same conversational flux with them. That point.
Well, fuck them.
Honestly.
Fuck them.
This is this, or that is that. We know this is this, you fucking idiot! We know that that is that! God, what is fucking wrong with you people?!? Fucking God Damned Academics!
10:39 pm
Eric Clapton asks me if there is time for pity, in the falling rain.
Outside my window, he says.
Is a tree
Outside my window.
Is a tree.
…
Goodnight.
I love you.
. But for some emotional input.. :
