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Captain.Heroin

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How the fuck are we supposed to know
When I'm a monster, the way
You refuse to die?
How the fuck are we supposed to know
If we're in love or if in we're pain?

I'm a tightrope walker
I can't find my circus
And I'm damaged beyond repair

You're just a coffin of a girl I knew
And I'm buried in you
You never said "I'll end up like this"
You never said "I'll end up like this"
No, no, no, no
Sometimes I dream I'm an exterminating angel
A traveling executioner from heaven
Sent to give you the prettiest death I know
Call the grave and make our reservations
You never said "I'll end up like this"
You never said "I'll end up like this", no
You never said "I'll end up like this"
You never said "I'll end up like this", no, no, no, no, no, no
Are we in love or are we in pain?
Are we in love or are we in pain?
Are we in love or are we in pain?
Are we in love or are we in pain?

How the fuck are we supposed to know
When I'm a monster, the way
You refuse to die?
How the fuck are we supposed to know
If we're in love or if in we're pain?

Why is my wound a front door to you?
Am I my own shadow?
Why is my wound a front door to you?
Am I my own shadow?
 

Captain.Heroin

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I have never felt such intense anticipation my whole life. Holy fuck.
 

Captain.Heroin

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I have never felt such intense anticipation my whole life. Holy fuck.
Ah, so this is what I was doing Saturday night.

I remembered Sunday and Monday fairly well but Saturday was bits and pieces until I placed it in time.
 

Captain.Heroin

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I can hear her call. The call to war.
A war in death that I avoided in life.
It is my chance to go and fight for life
In death.
Only in death will I have a chance to change.
Or be different. I don’t know how to act any different.
Anyone would do the same.
Her calls squeal and chirp like morning birds. So lovely to listen to.
So moving. Avian war drums awaken me daily.
And I know it is the time to die.
But I am scared. I am broken. I am not done mending all of my childhood wounds.
I never will be; it is meant to be an unfinished symphony derived from cacophony.
Human beings distract me and I desire to rot in the mossy ground. My spirit will go into the mist.
The moist air inhaled by the birds who chirp. With her.
In my call to war. My call to death.
 

Captain.Heroin

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What was I. What was I supposed to be. Humans have little intuitive volition. No free will. I think, but that is all I am: a series of thoughts. I puke into the toilet, collapse on the ground. Black out for hours. I hate human life, and myself the most. Pissing and puking and avoiding food. I begin to realize how terrible excess is. Liberation in a world where existence is suffering would be anti-consumerist dribbles forming at the corner of my mouth as I aimlessly crawl through life, a salivating street-wandering waste of life. It is what society has become. I am comforted in my small respites. Respiration working, and I should be calmed by this. I think but when I express my mind it comes out wrong. My body has come to this, a betrayal interface for information analysis technology. I crawl on the ground looking for a suitable place to die and anywhere should do but I am too vapid. This is my spiritual living death.
 

Captain.Heroin

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Marla started a job doing prepaid funeral plans for a mortuary where sometimes great fat men, but usually fat women, would come out of the mortuary showroom carrying a crematory urn the size of an egg cup, and Marla would sit there at her desk in the foyer with her dark hair tied down and her snagged pantyhose and breast lump and doom, and say, "Madam, don't flatter yourself. We couldn't get even your burned-up head into that tiny thing. Go back and get an urn the size of a bowling ball."
Marla's heart looked the way my face was. The crap and the trash of the world. Post-consumer human butt wipe that no one would ever go to the trouble to recycle.
 

Captain.Heroin

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Thank you Shady. I didn't care much for the music because it sounds a bit too up-beat/beat centered and optimistic for my taste but I'm sure if I was in the right mood I'd love it. I'm just not there right now.
 

Captain.Heroin

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I go through ups and downs. I think I'll make it out of this down I'm in.
^ Lol

"It is an extravagant demand that a man who no longer cares to live for himself, should still go on living as a mere machine for the benefit of others"
-Schopenhauer

"This limitation leads me to myself, where I can no longer withdraw behind an objective point of view that I am merely representing, where neither I myself nor the existence of others can any longer become an object for me,"
We live on the future: "tomorrow," "later on," "when you have made your way," "you will understand when you are old enough." Such irrelevancies are wonderful, for, after all, it's a matter of dying. Yet a day comes when a man notices or says that he is thirty. Thus he asserts his youth. But simultaneously he situates himself in relation to time. He takes his place in it. He admits that he stands at a certain point on a curve that he acknowledges having to travel to its end. He belongs to time, and by the horror that seizes him, he recognizes his worst enemy. Tomorrow, he was longing for tomorrow, whereas everything in him ought to reject it. That revolt of the flesh is the absurd.
The world evades us because it becomes itself again. That stage scenery masked by habit becomes again what it is. It withdraws at a distance from us. Just as there are days when under the familiar face of a woman, we see as a stranger her we had loved months or years ago, perhaps we shall come even to desire what suddenly leaves us so alone. But the time has not yet come. Just one thing: that denseness and that strangeness of the world is the absurd.
Yet one will never be sufficiently surprised that everyone lives as if no one "knew." This is because in reality there is no experience of death. Properly speaking, nothing has been experienced but what has been lived and made conscious. Here, it is barely possible to speak of the experience of others' deaths. It is a substitute, an illusion, and it never quite convinces us. That melancholy convention cannot be persuasive. The horror comes in reality from the mathematical aspect of the event. If time frightens us, this is because it works out the problem and the solution comes afterward. All the pretty speeches about the soul will have their contrary convincingly proved, at least for a time. From this inert body on which a slap makes no mark the soul has disappeared. This elementary and definitive aspect of the adventure constitutes the absurd feeling. Under the fatal lighting of that destiny, its uselessness becomes evident. No code of ethics and no effort are justifiable a priori in the face of the cruel mathematics that command our condition.
 

Captain.Heroin

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I know another truism: it tells me that man is mortal. One can nevertheless count the minds that have deduced the extreme conclusions from it. It is essential to consider as a constant point of reference in this essay the regular hiatus between what we fancy we know and what we really know, practical assent and simulated ignorance which allows us to live with ideas which, if we truly put them to the test, ought to upset our whole life. Faced with this inextricable contradiction of the mind, we shall fully grasp the divorce separating us from our own creations. So long as the mind keeps silent in the motionless world of its hopes, everything is reflected and arranged in the unity of its nostalgia.
But aspects cannot be added up. This very heart which is mine will forever remain in definable to me. Between the certainty I have of my existence and the content I try to give to that assurance, the gap will never be filled. Forever I shall be a stranger to myself. In psychology as in logic, there are truths but no truth. Socrates' "Know thyself" has as much value as the "Be virtuous" of our confessionals. They reveal a nostalgia at the same time as an ignorance. They are sterile exercises on great subjects. They are legitimate only in precisely so far as they are approximate.

And here are trees and I know their gnarled surface, water and I feel its taste. These scents of grass and stars at night, certain evenings when the heart relaxes — how shall I negate this world whose power and strength I feel? Yet all the knowledge on earth will give me nothing to assure me that this world is mine. You describe it to me and you teach me to classify it. You enumerate its laws and in my thirst for knowledge I admit that they are true. You take apart its mechanism and my hope increases. At the final stage you teach me that this wondrous and multicolored universe can be reduced to the atom and that the atom itself can be reduced to the electron. All this is good and I wait for you to continue. But you tell me of an invisible planetary system in which electrons gravitate around a nucleus. You explain this world to me with an image. I realize then that you have been reduced to poetry: I shall never know. Have I the time to become indignant?
I don't know which "Me" that I LOVE, I've got no reflection

The soft lines of these hills and the hand of evening on this troubled heart teach me much more. I have returned to my beginning. I realize that if through science I can seize phenomena and enumerate them, I cannot, for all that, apprehend the world. Were I to trace its entire relief with my finger, I should not know any more. And you give me the choice between a description that is sure but that teaches me nothing and hypotheses that claim to teach me but that are not sure. A stranger to myself and to the world, armed solely with a thought that negates itself as soon as it asserts, what is this condition in which I can have peace only by refusing to know and to live, in which the appetite for conquest bumps into walls that defy its assaults? To will is to stir up paradoxes. Everything is ordered in such a way as to bring into being that poisoned peace produced by thoughtlessness, lack of heart, or fatal renunciations.
On this plane, at least, there is no happiness if I cannot know. That universal reason, practical or ethical, that determinism, those categories that explain everything are enough to make a decent man laugh. They have nothing to do with the mind. They negate its profound truth, which is to be enchained. In this unintelligible and limited universe, man's fate henceforth assumes its meaning. A horde of irrationals has sprung up and surrounds him until his ultimate end. In his recovered and now studied lucidity, the feeling of the absurd becomes clear and definite.
From the moment absurdity is recognized, it becomes a passion, the most harrowing of all. But whether or not one can live with one's passions, whether or not one can accept their law, which is to burn the heart they simultaneously exalt—that is the whole question.
 
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Captain.Heroin

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How the fuck are we supposed to know
If we're in love or if in we're pain?

I'm a tightrope walker
I can't find my circus
And I'm damaged beyond repair

You're just a coffin of a girl I knew
And I'm buried in you
You never said "I'll end up like this"
You never said "I'll end up like this"
No, no, no, no
Sometimes I dream I'm an exterminating angel
A traveling executioner from heaven
Sent to give you the prettiest death I know
Call the grave and make our reservation

Are we in love or are we in pain?
I'm damaged beyond repair.
I wake up with the memories of a life worth living.
All the afterthoughts make me cry.
The reflection in the mirror is breaking down.
Melting like a snowflake wishing to die.
 

Captain.Heroin

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You died without me by your side. I cannot help but consider the fact you spared me a great trauma, but also stole from me great closure. I was dead with you, in spirit. I remember the laughs, the joys. The good times. The amazing experiences I will never forget. Sometimes I cry thinking about the acrid bitter-sweetness of these memories. At other times I can smile and remember the good times.

I still have a photograph of us; you know the one. Back to back, smiling, in front of a fake screen with a virtual reality experience sold to the tourists. I don't care about the picture. I care about how it makes me remember exactly how I felt and thought and remembered and lived in that moment, and that moment is still real to me.

Come back. You cannot, for you are dead, but I ask anyway. I pray for the recurrence now, because I know it will happen regardless and it at times seems preferable to the lack of perception. At other times I see it the other way from my profuse introverted trist, and wish nothing more than to be cold beside you.

We used to look up at the stars. You would point out Venus, or Mars, or the comets. You loved the universe at large. None of it is real, it is all virtual: untouchable. None of this is authentic as the thing that has created us. We are just experiencing a script. Avatars controlling avatars, being controlled by aliens, arguing about sprites and the increasingly unrealistic engine that replicates what should be the laws of physics but is something inadvertently bastardized; a better word would be muddled by programmer incompetency.

We all have those moments.

I think about what my life is going to be like 5 years from now, 10 years from now. I think about what I want to do, the few aims and aspirations I have left. I think about the absurdity of human existence; that we keep seeking out meaning where there seemingly is none. Everything I do falls apart, and I somehow am spared the specter of death in a distasteful philosophical suicide.

During my every day life of an existence even the least humble person on earth would pity, I feel time carrying us all. A moment always comes during the same part of every day when I see it being carried by myself, and others around me. The human butt-wipe post-consumerist garbage of the world, repackaged as food after all other species are extinct due to climate and environmental crises, we perpetually live in a future that never comes: "tomorrow," "later on," "when you have made your way," "you will understand when you are old enough." These idioms are wonderful, for, after all, it's a matter of dying. Yet a day comes when a young man reaches the age of thirty. We assert our youth. But simultaneously we situate ourselves in relation to time. We take our place in it. I, at the very least, have taken my place in it and this above all else I accept. I admit that I stand at a certain point on a curve that I acknowledge having to travel to its end. I belong to time, and when others come across this realization it normally terrorizes them. It used to be my worst enemy; the knowledge that nothing seemingly matters in an impermanent existence, as if it never happened. No permanent consequences. I used to desire for the passage of time: counting down the days, in multiple now-pointless scenarios. My time would have been better spent accepting pre-determinism and that no one makes mistakes; we are merely living through experiences and happen to grow as individuals or we don't. That in itself is also outside of our control. We are running a script and the results will be analyzed later. When I was younger, and wanted time to go by quicker, and still I seek to rush to the end of life, running away from tactile sensation and pain because I have never learned acceptance, everything in me ought to reject it. This is the absurdity of life. The revolt of my body and aberrant brain are the signature of my personal mundanity. I shall never escape the ennui I am now faced with, and yet I still live and could not tell you why. There's no target. No end-game. In video games, it becomes clear what end game(s) the 'real life' human being strives for. Some people in FPS games want most kills, and don't care if it's from skill or hacks. Others want team wins. Others want objective wins, no matter the cost. Others want a certain style of kill (sniper rifle, knife, grenade) proficiency. Others want a kill/death ratio because the worship of the numbers that encode the script is all the being controlling the avatar controlling the avatar with sprite interaction issues could ever hope to become sexually drawn to in their realm. In mmorpg games, there's a plethora of end-game (achievements, top-tier group quests, large group events, player versus player, exploration, currency, housing). I have no end-game to my life. There's no method or alogrithm for determining or analyzing what "end-game" people strive for in life. The set belief systems allude me and I used to live by some of them (I speak as if "I" was doing "any of that", I was not, it was something I was merely experiencing); that is what a simulation is: an experience, with detailed data at the end for analysis. All of them failed me. I fail to see any of them working for others. People turn to idiotic belief systems (anti-vaxxers, flat-earth society, people who believe in god) to stick their head in the sand over this one.

You and I did not, friend. That is why I will miss you. Other people are hell and so am I.

I just do not see the point of a life where I cannot enjoy something forever. Even in a mortal life where I know I am an impermanent being, I still retain the past in the form of memories. If that were to become compromised I wouldn't see why life should be worth living. If my consciousness isn't retained forever my life has no meaning and I should just end it, yet I keep going on and I do not know why, aside from the fact that it is not "I" that is doing it: as I said, I am just experiencing this. No control: all scripted.

I watched two people I love, both still alive, being dragged through the most hellish existences imaginable as they lose all recollection of self-identity. I watched you passively euthanize yourself. You died next to only one person who supported your decision. I would have supported it too, if I only had understood. I didn't know. You sounded so brave. I didn't know how bad the treatment was, that your body was failing anyways and the odds were stacked against you.

I am sorry. I am sorry we belong to time. I am not sorry that I belong to time for I have accepted it, but I do not think you did, my eternal friend. I will always love you.

Death is nothing to us, for when we exist death is not present, and when death is present, we do not exist.
 

Captain.Heroin

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There was a moment, the moment where I died. The same moment I was born. And it just continues, without end. Life is so long. It will never end. The highs, the lows. The sensations that will never leave: visuals, tastes. Thoughts and recollections outside of my control. If I were a believer I would be no longer praying for a good life, but a good death.



You and I were the masters of life in death, and in that specific moment you chose death.
You chose death.
 
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