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“... suffering is the sole origin of consciousness“ - Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Holding out the cavernous rose I offer you, “Is it here?” she asks, as it hasn’t been here the whole time. But she knows it’s here, she knows we’re here. She knows that silence has been here the whole time, between the frequencies.

The silence of growing, Like the rose, The frequencies within the seed, Holding out a rose she asks him, “Am I here?”

The scent of a cold morning, Of the remembrance of pure emotions, Of naivety and unadulterated love, Of city streets, of a stumbling defiance, Of a time before hurt, that never existed,

Now the cold of a warm morning, Of a body trying to keep up with reckless abandon, Of lost friends, lost loves, lost hope, Of pure emotions, puzzled at the thought of themselves, Of pain and mourning of the deaths of people, the idea of people, Of drowning debts, swallowing slumber, and closed pores, Porous nothing, Of the purity of another’s touch, with the complexity of modernity. Of acceptance seeping, an acceptance that we have already lost.

Sometimes this world feels so cold and cruel, So empty and crowded, And so vapid,

Is this nature or design? Or representation?

Sometimes I want all of you, These fleeting encounters are growing tired, I don’t want commitment, I just want to experience all of you, Or perhaps you are just another harm I can do to myself.

To the void of the internet

Trying to find the will to do anything in periods of depression is one of the hardest points in life. There are sometimes weeks, or even months, where the hardest part of the day is simply finding any reason to get out of bed. If that hurdle can be overcome finding the reason to leave the house, is even more difficult. I know wholeheartedly that there are a few things in my life that give it meaning, which are simply music and people. However, when I’m stuck in these cycles of depression I can’t bring myself to see the people I love, and pushing at keys, plucking at strings, or finding my voice feels impossible and serves only to push my further down.

When music and connection feel impossible to grasp, the outlet I most often fall victim to is drugs and alcohol. I know that I can take a chemical and temporarily restore the ability to connect with people, or I can drink myself into a state where I’m numb for an evening, despite being completely aware that these chemicals will most often not help me deal with anything in the following days (with the exception of maybe Acid). Sometimes these pursuits turn into all out carnage where I find myself willingly throwing myself into turmoil; long sessions of binge drinking, dangerous drug concoctions, self-harm, and deliberately putting myself in harm’s way. I guess these fulfil the desire to either feel something, or nothing at all.

Right now, I can only recall one day recently that I felt content, and that is only because I made a point to make a note of it due to its rarity. Sure, there have been moments of satisfaction, and perhaps even fleeting happiness, but none of those feel like they were outside of the influence of depression. Those moments are so fleeting and I’m often too aware of that fact to truly enjoy them. However, prolonged periods of genuine happiness (more than a day or two) I am often able to appreciate in the moment. They are just not very regular.

I am writing this, and publishing it off into the ether, because there was once a time where I found some sense of contentedness by writing publicly. I’m also so frustrated with my depression at the moment that I’m losing sight of any genuine strategy to deal with it. But I’m still trying.

I’m trying to devise a plan to get out of this miserable city

To remain stagnant is to die in complacency. Don't stop, ever.

Ascribe meaning

I love the ways in which life can be simplified in sporadic moments of clarity, sublime realizations that are beyond the grasp of reason but at the same time can be rationalized to entropy. One such moment of importance was a conversation with a psychologist, who upon hearing me spill the depths of my problematic associations with escapism and my own pseudo-reconciliation of my association between drugs, alcohol and abstract violence, interjected and suggested that I should be more like my tote bag. This interjection was profound in its ability to shift my thought process into an entirely different direction. In a frantic moment of clarity I assessed the object, once simple, of utilitarian value, now redefined into the innermost workings of my psyche. I need clarified recklessness, I need art, I need simple chaos, I need fewer words, I need less care, I need less analysis.

And all of this meaning ascribed to the simplest of objects, a mass produced off-white tote bag with the daft inscriptions of my socialization. These moments are the moments that I hold dear.

"But gentlemen, what sort of free choice will there be when it comes down to tables and arithmetic, when all that’s left is two times two makes four? Two times two makes four even without my will. Is that what you call free choice?"

Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Pleasure always means not to think about anything, to forget suffering even where it is shown. Basically it is helplessness.

Theodore Adorno

#Adorno

The deluge.

I ask you to imagine how nice it must be to unburden yourself of responsibility to others, pass that buck, pass that blame, oh how nice you must feel. Delude the deluge and let it pour over me. I ask if you are also astonished by the weight of it’s torrents.

I ask if you felt even a tide of sadness when that ocean gushed from pursed lips, when you took a candle to my skin and tried to create fire with my flesh. How many times did you let those torrents rush? Must I continue to bare witness to this flood for the rest of my days? I’m astonished. I’m astonished at the selective blindness, the cognitive dissonance of people. The inability to reconcile the harm you’ve caused. Your guise is only as convincing as the ripples of tiny obstructions parading as the deluge.

I was once a fire, but you swallowed up all my empathy when you unleashed the deluge upon me, now I am a swamp of molten stone for you; slowly chilling, hardening, and returning to the earth. I am dead for you. I’m grateful I was able to recover my flame for others though, I very nearly returned myself to the earth as stone. But you didn’t quite make it. I am still burning and for that I am thankful.

Alcohol is a violent expression

Alcohol is a violent expression. My thirst for intoxication is entangled with my desire to lash out into drum kits, separate skin, or drive maniacally. The want for intoxication stems from many places but this connection is new. Visceral catharsis, perhaps an expression of something I'm lacking, something I'm missing, something so complex that it can only be expressed in simplicity – until I am ready to explore it. There is a world of complexity and hurt that I am unwilling to scale, but maybe one day I'll have to. For now, micro-progressions will have to sedate me.

I have always said and felt that true enjoyment can not be described.

Jean-Jacques Rousseau

If I had to fight through those swells of turmoil to be gifted the pleasure of experiencing these moments then perhaps it was all worth it? Maybe I have found a reason to keep going. Maybe one day I'll be okay again.

#day 3

“The American Armed Forces radio was playing cowboy music. We shared a cigarette. Afterward, she rested her head on my shoulder.

"Still, was it really necessary for us to do this?” I asked. 

“Of course it was!” With one deep sigh, she fell asleep against me. She felt as soft and light as a kitten.

Alone now, I leaned over the edge of my boat and looked down to the bottom of the sea. The volcano was gone. The waters calm surface reflected the blue of the sky. Little waves - like silk pyjamas fluttering in a breeze - lapped against the side of the boat. There was nothing else.

I stretched out in the bottom of the boat and closed my eyes, waiting for the rising tide to carry me where I belonged.“

- The Elephant Vanishes, Haruki Murakami

#murakami #the elephant vanishes

“Sometimes in the hours when I plant kisses on your face;

I’m flawed by the enormity of your beauty and your grace;

You are a force of nature dear, most fearful to behold;

Oh tear me down, tear me down, I do not be so bold.”

May this feeling never end.

"You need less words. Stay away from words." - My psych.

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