Diary of a Maniac

I don’t want to listen to anyone who tells me what to do to fix my perceived problem. They don’t know what my problem is or what its like. They can give me their answers but they will be relating to something they have no experience of. They haven’t lived my life. They don’t know me because I don’t know me. They don’t know what this house looks like in here. I don’t want to listen to people give me their solutions beause they don’t even work for them. They are blind. At least im crazy and I realise it.

What am I doing here? Why am I asking these questions? I don’t want to try anymore. I want to give up and just let it happen. I don’t know what it is that will happen or if anything will happen at all. Im not scared of something happening. Im not scared of dying alone. Everyone dies alone. Death is an idea. I don’t know when I was born. Going to sleep is not an experience ive ever had. Ive always been unconscious for it. But I keep waking up. I don’t know what happens for a third of my lifetime. Something must happen. Or nothing. Ive never had an experience like it. I want to lose myself.

This really blows. I don’t have the same problems as everyone else. I feel like im the only cunt looking through the door at something that has always been there, while everyone else is in the back of the house trying to decorate it, knowing something is outside but choosing to ignore it. I can't take my eyes off the thing outside. I cant see it, smell it, nothing. Its impossible to understand. I have to walk outside the door to get to it. It cant be known from in here. Everyone else will think im crazy because the inside of the house is so pretty, and they have decorated it well and worked all their lives to make it pretty and bearable, but really it’s just a house with things hanging up in it.

They think it’s everything when in fact theres something outside that’s going to knock the door down one day, and they will be clinging to their stupid house and decorations. I want to open the door to the thing and shake its hand. I want to invite it into my house and have it do whatever it does with it. The house is useless and fake. Its pointless. It stops me from seeing what I know must be there. Everyone tries to convince me that I should go back and find a nice spot in the house to decorate it, but every time I try to do it I feel like shit. I eventually quit.

People accuse me of lacking motivation, of not being real, of not having an idea about the realities of life and what I should be doing. Im sure that if I should be decorating a house for my whole life then I would have been born with the intrinsic ability to do such a thing. Decorating would be just like breathing, or having my heart beat. It would take no thought and effort at all to do if this was what humans and I were meant to do. Doesn’t anyone else see that? Why am I the only person who wants to confront the reality of the situation? Why is it so scary? Why have they invested so much in everything when its clearly so fake and pointless? When the door opens for them, they wont know what to do. They will be scared because they will lose their precious fakeness. But it has always just been silly colours and rags anyway. It’s a massive effort to distract them from reality. I don’t know why. Is reality so bad? Why must it be avoided? I don’t know what im saying. If I have to leave my hat at the door before I open it, then so be it. I don’t care. It’s a fake hat anyway. Fuck you.

A Fight to the Finish

There was a black cat who liked to drink milk. All the other cats liked to drink milk, and when the store owner would empty out all the stale milk from his store every few days all the cats would race to drink the milk. This black cat, however, sat there and watched as the rest of the cats raced for the milk, pushing, fighting, scratching, arguing, to make sure they got as much of the milk as they could.

This black cat watched it all, every few days, the circus unfolded in front of him. It's not that the black cat didn't like milk, he did, but he didn't need it that badly.

One day, as the store owner was emptying the stale milk into the street for the cats to drink, one of the cats, who wasn't very good at pushing his way through the rest of them, noticed the black cat sitting there, watching it all. Usually none of them noticed him because they were obsessing over the milk, but for some reason today the white cat saw him.

This white cat walked over to the observer, and asked him, "What are you doing here? Don't you want any of the milk?"

The black cat looked at him and said, "Not really. If the milk was offered to me, I might have some, but look at the rest of the cats over there, they are doing more fighting, pushing, scratching, arguing, than they are drinking milk. They do not know what they are drinking at the moment, even though the milk passes through their lips. They are too busy worrying about their next lick, worrying about who else is going to stop them from getting their next little bit, that they are ignoring completely the tasting of the milk itself".

The white cat, after hearing this from the black cat, looked over to the scramble of cats trying to feverishly lick up as much milk as they could. He noticed their eyes darting around, looking for other cats who might push them away, always on guard, always fearful of losing their spot.

"But surely," said the white cat, "you can't have tasted this man's milk before. This milk is the best in all of the shops in the town, how can you say you don't need it when you haven't tasted it?"

The black cat answered back, "You're right, I haven't tasted this man's milk. And if I don't fight, scratch, argue, and push with all the other cats then I probably never will taste it. But neither will they."

Hearing this, the white cat sat down next to the black cat, and they watched from afar as the town cats faught, scratched, argued, and pushed each other for the rights to the milk.

Illusions

A butterfly goes to sleep. It wakes up as a man. The man goes to work, eats his lunch, sleeps with his wife, for 20 years. He goes to sleep. The butterfly wakes up.