Wednesday, July 18, 2012

Underneath and underground…

I still feel the pangs of needs that bring me back to my adolescence.  It’s ridiculous.

I’d just like to turn my brain off for a few months and not worry about it now.  But, I guess that’s what I said a few months ago; here I am.

It’s so silly to feel the kinds of basic yearnings that are so aesthetically human.  I hate the kind of people that are always looking to take advantage of the opposite sex, or to fill their own loneliness with physical intimacy.  And when I yearn for those kinds of things, I dismiss it.  I think about where it would end up, and the unsatisfying tinge that paints sex when it’s with someone you don’t love absolutely.

I think about the frailty of human interaction, and just how much is based on your own reflection in the first place.  I don’t meet the kind of people who are genuinely interested in me or my thoughts.  I’m just a sounding board, most of the time.  A brick wall.

But I don’t really care about that in the same way that a self-conscious person would.  I just care about the idea of actually meeting that other kind of people.  It has to happen someday.

I didn’t have it with people I’ve known my whole life, and I haven’t found it in the myriad forms of succubus that have clawed at my heart.  Half of it is because I’ve never met anyone I wanted to share that with, and the other half is that nobody really tried, anyway.

But, in a few days or a week or two weeks, I’ll be back in a manic phase and schizoid and it won’t matter for a month or two.  That’s what’s so goddamned silly about it.  It becomes easier to repress yourself when you’re harder to suppress.

The part of me that just wants to get laid is ugly, because it goes against what I’ve learned and my own principles.  The part of me that regrets the past is ugly because I still mourn the death of someone that never gave a shit about me, and sank into self-loathing bitterness.  I mourn a lot of things, and none of them really matter at all, because they either happened in what seems like a past life, or they were pointless and stupid in the first place.

The man in me wants to feel attractive to the kind of women I feel attracted toward, even if I blow them off or act strangely.  I at least want the satisfaction of feeling like I’m not just a bitter, mentally wrecked loser.

Being around such banal people has made me realize just how extraordinary my upbringing was.  Or, maybe it was just my own intelligence that got me through it.  I’ve seen the dark mouth of Hell, and I’ve lived in a black hole, and I’ve been to places that cause me to laugh inside every time I hear someone talking about their “dark shit”.  They don’t know what real, mind-shattering psychoses are, and they don’t know what real trauma is.

I attribute too much to the importance I place on past memories.  But, I’m not the kind of person that lets go just because it’s not important anymore.  My past will always be important to me; so I tell myself.

The more I live through it, the more I realize that I would hate myself if I did lower to that bottom standard.  If I became another douchey guy; if I manipulated people in such a condescending way, as if they were objects to me; if I eternally sought to raise myself above others so that they knew;  If I became the kind of person I hated, just for bland, bleak fulfillment; How could I really live with myself after that?

Sometimes I feel like I have every single moment of my life stored in my head.  Then I think about people like Nietzsche, Staley, Turing.  They all died in abject misery.  So maybe that’s a kind of badge of honor I can hope for.

In the very center of my soul, I have always been the kind of person to hammer myself down into absurd and selfish things.  I pound and break and stomp until there’s less than nothing left.  I’ve carved my opinions into the foreheads of the kind of people that were too stupid to realize I was better than them.  Part of that is never giving up on its weight, never putting it aside just to be a sheep long enough to sate their thirst of the animalistic.

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