I am going to die.

I was born. Was I born? When did I come? Where do I arise?

I am under the impression that I am of this body. WHat I mean is, I believe that I experience the sensations that are linked with this body and this mind.

What is my body? My body is what I can detect through what I call various senses. I can see it, I can hear it, I can feel it, I can taste it. Where is my mind? I can't see it, I can't hear it physically, it whispers to me somewhere. Where do I hear it? I listen to all of these thoughts and I react. Rather, there is a reaction in my body, to which there arises another thought in response, and there is a chain reaction. Where does the original thought occur? The original thought must be the 'I' thought, because everything I know is in relation to what I call me. Everything I have experienced, everything that has happened around me, my experience of life and this body which is always changing happens in front of 'I', or me. So, there is absolutely no way that I am this body, or this mind. I must be some sort of witness to all this. I must know the experience of pain, and of confusion, but I do not get hurt. What I am must remain untouched by all of these sensations.

But I believe that I am this body and mind...do I? The assumption seems to run deep, I say to people for convenience's sake that I am this body and this personality that I have built up. But it's not the truth, and I must constantly tell myself this, because it seems to me that this might be the only way this will sink in permanently, that the mind will recognise itself as apart from the witness of it - or rather, that the mind is not the same as me.

What do I care if this person experiences something great? I don't know why, but I want him to experience something incredible. I could easily not want that, but I do. And the reason I expppppppppppppppppppppppppppp

Deception.

Deception from all possible angles. Trapped in a cage made by yourself, unwittingly, in a perverse effort drawn by your own experiences and interpretations.

From your own makings. Is it your fault? What is fault? Who is to blame? What is blame? Why is blame? For what purpose? I am accountable. Is that blame? Is that slander? Does that mean I am useless, I should stop trying? I should stop trying. I have given up even before I have begun. The battle is not in the effort to undertake action, it is even before that. It is in the foetal stages of formulation of a desire - the almost unshakeable belief that it will not come into fruition.

Based on what? On the past, on my own past failings, on my own harsh judgments brought down to me by origins unknown. This is my condition. I am crippled, I am a fighter jet crippled with no ignition key. The design is faultless, the starter is absent. What makes me this way? What can I do about it?

Pride needs to be abandoned. I believe that when I submit to another's will, I am worthless. I am less than nothing. I am jetsam in the infinity of life. A plaything to be toyed with by whoever sees fit. No identity! Nothing of my own. Nothing of the individual. My individuality becomes forfeit, no more a sweet crystal castle but a flaming wreck of what used to be my personality. My likes, dislikes, behaviours, will be cast out into the ether and replaced by whatever is available. This is death. You must die to move forward.

I should not cling to "life" - that which has become obsolete must perish and be replaced by new flowerings. Another incarnation of life must be brought into existence. But for that to happen, first there must be complete annihilation. There is no other way, if there is to be completely a fresh start, for there to be an alternative is impossible.

But how to initiate it? In a flash, in a single event, can it happen? Can I force my emotions, those fickle stubborn things, can they be trusted to follow suit? A man is at the mercy of forces beyond his simple will. This will is weak; it is based on superficialities of life. It is based not on survival - this man knows nothing of the battle required to survive every day. He has been sheltered; fed with a silver spoon and been led down a garden path where the fruits of the brutalities of the past are paraded in front of him like garlands blinding a noble elephant. He knows nothing of the dank, nothing of the dark, the roots and weeds and the constant conflict that occurs to bring forth these things. He is of the mind that life is simple. These things can be accrued by simple existence - there is no need for asking questions about the origins of his wealth, the privilege of his position, all he must do is to follow the leader and these things will come of their own accord.

Curiosity, however, can be dangerous, and with no guide, has led to his destruction. It now seems inevitable to the man that his own identity, the thing that we hold so precious to ourselves, must be assassinated. He must become a murderer to himself. Those crude images of suicide were perhaps alluding to this; his short-sightedness giving conditions that only suicide could remedy. However it is not the callous, idiotic murder of the whole organism that is required to take place. It is indeed more subtle than that - more subtle but more difficult, perhaps...not as obvious.

The key to the assassination of the identity is hidden. All of the expectations, tainted by the sins of the past, must be dealt with for the man to function at his full capacity.

The present represents itself as a kind of limbo. Suspended in a state between despair and hopelessness and endless hope and fruitful motivation. Changes are occurring, beneficial or not - the jury is out.

I just wish that it would hurry up - like a magic wand, sweep everything away and become a zero. Just like that.

How do you express yourself free from judgment? The judgments of other people are my own; they all exist within me. They are there in the back of my mind, they say, "Hey, slow down, you really shouldn't be doing this, you can do it for a couple of minutes but you can't devote all your energies into it. You have to think about other things, how to make a living, how to get a job of some repute, how to raise money to do things that the normal people do. You have to be normal, you have to fit in."

Maybe I shouldn't fit in. Do I want to? Yes, but don't I already? My presence here suggests that I fit in in some respect. But I keep worrying about it. I want to be more like the other people. There are doubts in my mind when I sit down to play music, to write, to read, especially. How can I expect to express myself freely when there are constant lingering doubts occurring? There needs to be a shift in my attitude, I need to work on convincing myself that it is ok to do such things. I am too easily distracted, there is not enough focus in my general doings. I am holding back because I am preoccupied. I am worried that I will give too much of myself in something and get completely lost in it, perhaps never to return. Do I want to return? What is so good about this place of constant judgment and subtle worry? It is not fertile ground for the imagination to provide wonderful dreams and calculated predictions about how to implement these dreams. I have to take a leap of faith and just be whatever I want to be. It will only take a split second, and if it doesn't work out, then life will tell me, and I will be forced to listen. If I am convinced that the place I am in is good enough then there will be no resistance. Right now there are questions and I think that means that my current state needs tinkering. Perhaps just a little, perhaps a lot, perhaps I am just to follow the path I have been recently to get my body and mind back on track to somewhere close to where I want it to be.

One thing must not be overlooked; that is a great positive, and that is that I am much more of a possibility now. There has been a marked internal shift in disposition and default mood state. The inevitable tests have been met with more equanimity and tact. There has been more time to catch my breath and reasonably adjust to challenges without acting on impulse or compulsion. It is by no means a finished product, I am not perfect in the way I want to be in any way, however I must not disregard the improvements that my endeavours have brought to my experience. If I want to continue on this higher path then I have to acknowledge the positives as well as the challenges that I continue to face. The thought of stark reality has proven to be an almost indestructible barrier against the sometimes merciless barrage of emotional tempest and wild thought-running. Some slight tests have presented themselves over the last week, and hopefully, by the good grace of God, I can find the strength to come through it with valuable lessons and experience.

I am not too naïve to think that it is all roses. Indeed, the events of the last 6 months as I have recently recounted in other correspondence make for depressing reading, if one is susceptible to feeling involuntary compassion for others, as I so often am, so often to my own chagrin. However, the current state of my psychology and physiology, notwithstanding the inevitable slip-ups with my rituals, have become as strong as I can remember. In fact, probably stronger. I can recall a certain state of mind with this feeling fermenting in my head, almost like a latent sense of anger or frustration waiting to be struck with a match by someone from outside. It remains there for now, however with it has come a self-confidence and an assurance that was lacking for so long in the preceding years. This is perhaps not the strongest of mindsets available, in fact it musn't be, for the very presence of a latent anger implies that there is some fear of losing whatever this experience is right now. However, I must learn that all things will pass eventually, and I will no doubt suffer again something of a different nature.

Enough for now, I am growing tired and have completely lost track of my train of thought. My motivation for writing something remains but the content involves some effort, the requirements of which I am not willing to retrieve for some unknown reason. Hopefully, with more practise of the yogic rituals, these silly barriers of energy preservation can be broken down and done away with.

There's a black dog on my shoulder again!

Licking my neck and saying she's my friend. Yes, my life is a compromise.

Am I hardening myself somehow? I am unable to release some things. It is unsettling and I am ill-at-ease. I am worried and am I indulging? What does that even mean?

Why do I think it is OK to indulge in some emotions and experiences and it's not okay for others? Why is that? Because I "shouldn't" feel something because I'm so damned lucky?

I know what it is. It's those people who told me to harden up and not to feel sorry for myself. But this exacerbates it all, don't they see? Why do I have to harden up? They can't be fucked or they don't know how to handle the situation, a little boy with a little boy's problems? A teenager with a teenager's problems? Why is this so scary? I want to purge it all out. I need to evoke it all somehow and release it. I want to scoop it up and let it dissolve into harmlessness. I want it to purify my soul. I want it out of me.

Purge. Purge. Purge. Purify. Escape. Release. Catharsis. Unleash. Rage. Cry. Despair. Sorrow. Helplessness. Humiliation. Disappointment. Urge Overkill.

I am required elsewhere it seems. Let the suffering and the stalling train of discomfort remain yet more.

Disorder | Rating
Paranoid: Very High
Schizoid: High
Schizotypal: High
Antisocial: Low
Borderline: Very High
Histrionic: Low
Narcissistic: Moderate
Avoidant: Very High
Dependent: Very High
Obsessive-Compulsive: Moderate
URL of the test: http://www.4degreez.com/misc/personality_disorder_test.mv
URL for more info: http://www.4degreez.com/disorder/index.html

Politics

What is the point of them? It?  Whatever. I don't know how to move in this place. Without knocking over so many vases and expensive things that scream when you get close to them - even if they don't break apart as you pass. Will I succumb to their desires, and reduce myself to a fine dust mote of a being to pass by them without friction? This will cause my death as a human being, and the ultimate compromise to the Other as to my own identity, whatever that is. This amalgamation of ideas and attitudes. There is another way and I must resolve myself to engage in it soon or else I risk losing my chance this time around. And what a golden chance it is. I must not let this slip from my grasp, life has given me an extremely ripe opportunity.

I am tired but I have energy. I am awake. Sleep has not overtaken me yet. I am still fighting the tiredness, which might mean I have some work to do before I can rest properly, before I can relax properly. I might need to do this work, I might not. These are just actions to appease certain attitudes and ideas I have inside me anyway. None of it really matters at all. They are just my own internal structures that place these requirements upon my soul, which has its own innate qualities that don't always align with the establishment, both inside and outside. The soul must be allowed to grow in its direction and watched carefully to learn from it.

I don't know what I'm writing anymore, it's just a load of bollocks isn't it. Whose benefit am I doing it for? My own? The writing practice is good, I can use it and it is a desirable thing that can be used in a good way for myself and for others too. But what of my motivations, out of what place am I acting this out from? The effect is cathartic, I had a stone in my shoe, and I wanted it out. It has come out in the form of words on a screen, of a linear, simply-followable internal discourse. It might appear that I am attempting to organize my emotions, which are irrational, into rational, logical and understandable things, so they can be filed away and be predictable. The left brain wanting to understand the right. The logical trying to understand the illogical, the intuitive. Perhaps the bridging of these two separate minds is the key to understanding oneself, the repartee between the two may be drawing a bridge ever closer to the meeting of the two points in common union and permanent understanding, and permanent knowledge of oneself and one's own mysteries - and perhaps, the mysteries of the universe, too.

But I don't know.

Engineering the Soul

And here it goes again. This merry-go-round of existential suffering, that limbo in which there is no movement or action, just the incessant walowing through which I am ensnared in the most devious traps contrived by nature herself. Surely, the most effective tool for stopping someone is to infect them with som einvisible sense of inaction, of pity, of inwardly-directed judgment and hatred; so as to cripple the individual who will abstain from any activity at the behest of this curse, who tells him that it will only grow if any action is taken.

For this is the opposite of the truth. The preciswe means of defeating this must be to not grant it the energy it so craves - it has placed within the host a certain craving not of his own will; it serves only one thing, that thing being the monster inside him. At the expense of the host, this demon sows seeds of discontent and disorder into the being of the innocent host, who is doomed to act out of compulsion and to sow his own seeds of self-destruction in the most pererted ways imaginable.

Such things aren't of fairy tales; they exist in this corporeal world. They are physical things that surround us, they can be transmitted from person to person as would a common cold through an innocent sneeze. The vetor this time is not the air, it is not the classical physical reactions we have been trained in this day and age to associate only with disease. It is invisible, and it strikes when you are most vulnerable. It acts of its own accord and with its own agenda, but it will maintain the host in a stasis not unknowingly complicit, but still the capacity for dispelling such an inconvenience is given to the host as an impossibility. Perhaps this is not the truth - perhaps the need for an illusion to dupe the master of his destiny into believing something that is not necessarily true denotes an inherent weakness in the build of the evil-doer; its own reliance on another form to survive is evidence enough of its need to trick the host into thinking it needs to maintain this sense of unease at all times.

This must be combated with the utmost intelligence and caution, for that which is not you must not be killed, or destroyed or altered in undesirable ways, but it must be conserved; all the while extinguishing the truthfully undesirable qualities that this one calls "disease". For that is the nature of the word, "dis" and "ease", that is a state of being that is not pleasant, and one that the being itself tries to improve using the faculties he is conscious and aware of. One can only use the faculties if one is proficient in their usages; if one uses his own (often substantial) powers irresponsibly, then there can be profound side-effects that would of course have to be unpredictable, and the likelihood of causing another two problems to extinguish one is disconcertingly high.

This does not mean that one should not make the effort to try to improve the situation. It is not hopeless, after all, if there is a possibility of making the surrounding environment into something of the utmost beauty and pleasantness; and one should endeavour while he has the faculties to detect subtleties and has the power to attune them to his desired measures, that he realises this and that in the experimentation process required, there are bound to be errors of judgment along the way. No blame can be apportioned to the scientist of the soul for experimenting with himself if things go wrong, or have undesirable consequences - for one must start wherever one finds oneself standing, and only through the careful manipulation of his own inner workings, his motivations, his wordly views, his realisations, can he hope to learn something of their power and process. For it is like feeling one's way through a labyrinth with nothing but one's own sense of touch - dead ends will be found mostly, some often revisted painfully frequently. But there can be no doubt that the only guarantee for the incompletion of a man's target entity is the cessation of the search. So, the being must continue its search once it has found a desirable and maintainable trait, and continue along its search of mastery of this most mysterious and complex of machines, that we call the human.

And this act of documentation? It is required due to the selective memory system of the compromised human. Its machinations can often be inefficient if they are running too much at once. For man has all the tools inherent in him to expedite his own liberation - it is the realisation of this that is too-oft forgotten. No blame can, or should be apportioned to anyone or anything for the state man finds himself in - it is out of pure ignorance (that too-often maligned concept) that a man drowns himself in his own despair that is entirely of his own making.

The heros of our time should not be our corrupt politicians, our wealthy sportsmen, our egotistical entertainers, or those that seek the limelight and jump head-first into the messy fight between those who are all after the same thing. Our heros should be those who view these things in a cautious, yet optimistic suspicion. They observe and critique in their own ways, they understand their true limitations and are not ashamed of them; they understand the plight of every being on this planet and yearn to spring each out of his own shell. They are inclusive, not exclusive; they are compassionate and thoughtful, not compulsive and greedy. They are those who don't seek fame, power, fortune, and they don't behold others as obstacles to overcome; as rungs on the ladder to victory. Our heros shun these things and understand the futility of such frivoulous accomplishments in favour of the untouchable - the love in our hearts, the smells of nature, the colours of everyone's own rainbow. These are the true accomplishments of man, the gardeners of the soul. For certainly, if one measured life in accomplishments, surely the greatest success would be the man who has conquered the world not through violence, or force, or through his will set against the wills of others. It will be the man who has brought the world together, free of these things, each aware of his own nature, each loving and compassionate as much to himself as he is to others. He is a healing force amongst many others; he strives to attain the ideal situation and to fulfill the purpose of the human on this planet. He is the greatest gift to all of creation - he makes us realise that we are indeed all unique expressions of the timeless time, of the formless form. Our hero needs no fulfillment or confirmation from others, he is rewarded by life itself for his pure heart and his virtuous soul.

Our hero is ourself. We must realise this and make it so we are heros that we can look up to ourselves.

Really?

Holy shit! I am here. I am. That's so weird, or maybe it's just so normal. Little dinosaurs are pecking at my window. It's incredible. I wish they would do that all the time. I enjoy the company. They are great. They are great ornaments.

I am having a relatively pleasant time. But I want to expand it. I have to find out how to do that. I  want to be away for a while.

Can I be excused for a moment?