A flawed fundament

Ok. You may have noticed, as I have, that we have electrons, neutrons, and protrons. You know, that make stuff.

I mean... protons.

What? Protons? Well heck, why not protrons? I mean, we've got  electrons and neutrons...

Well, some smart apples a hundred years ago figured out that there is a such a thing as these things, so they started naming them according to their descriptions. Electrons are electric, neutrons are neutered, and protons are proteins. You know, common sense stuff.

Well, what happened after that was, some other smart apple came along and started taking well enough and throwing it into a crowd, and suddenly we have textbooks that say electrons are inherently negative, because getting electrocuted is bad, and that's negative, I guess. They just had to go and get personal with an electron.

And we can't say neutrons are neutered anymore, because that's politically incorrect, because dogs and cats are people too... whatever. So now we have to say that neutrons are neutral. I mean, it's the same difference, ain't it?  Neuter, neutral... whatever, it comes out in the wash meaning the same dadgum thing.

And don't all proteins, every last ever loving one of them, have protons as one of their essential ingredients? Huh? Tell me I'm not right! Show me a protein that doesn't have a proton in it, and I'll show you a pork pie hat made out of pork pot pie and baked into the shape of a fedora and worn by a porgy and applauded by a bess, just like tweren't nuthin but a thang about it at all (and they should be called protReins, because Tron is the root word of awesome, by the way).

So what do they do to the proton? Not only do they forcibly rip away the Tron...

Oh boy.  Ok, gimme a sec to take a couple of deep breaths so I don't go splitting atoms here.

Alright. Firstly, before I shed light on this atrocity... they say that the reason its called a proton is because it has a positive charge. I mean, it's not just an arbitrary name, is it? Proton? There has to be some correlation between the name of the thing and the property of the thing, right? Like pro means positive, I guess? Right? Haven't I just demonstrated that concept with the electron and the neutron? Yeah, whatever, about them screwing up the names... they were still following a recognizable system, however flawed. Like pro for positive. Like an analogy that a third grade teacher in a one horse town would come up with... it's clumsy and ignorant, but at least it balances.

But the proton... and the electron too, as a matter of fact, now that I think about it... damn it, I'll just come right out and say it. The proton should be called a positron, and the electron should be called a negatron!

... no, not a Megatron, you stupid stupid machine! Negatron! No, not negate on... negatron! A negatively charged Tron!

Yeesh...

If you weren't just an idiotic integrated circuit, then maybe you would understand how bringing up the name of an evil transformer has absolutely nothing to do with what these words are all about... with what they MEAN, man! You can't just go making suggestions for spelling corrections all willy nilly... you've got to consider the CONTEXT surrounding the word that you're trying to auto-spell!

Anyway, dammit...

Right? Right?? Who's with me? I mean, why does an anti-electron get to be called a positron, instead of an anti-negatron? Which was discovered first? Or, more importantly... which are there more of in the universe, PERIOD?

There are so obviously more electrons (negatrons) than positrons (anti-negatrons). So why does the opposite of an electron get to be called a positron???

It ain't fair, dammit!

Meaningless beauty

I feel compelled... that is, I have to say something about it. I must attempt to communicate the experience. I don't yearn to share it... the essence of it yearns to be shared. And the yearning of it compels me to try.

It's like this... it's like something a newborn baby would dream, the first time it slept, and the first dream it dreamt. That's what it looks like, the thing that's got me worked up.

It's... but looking at it makes me feel old, like just the seeing of it forces the roots of it right into me, and the receiving of it is like... knowing the end of something. Something vast. But that's all I can see... the end of it. And it makes me feel so old...

And if beauty can be found in anything, then I use that justification to support the description and the feeling of what I'm seeing, which is meaningless beauty. Being poleaxed by the majesty of the ending of an ancient thing, without knowing or understanding the substance of it, or the history of it, or the life of it or the essence of it, or the meaning of it.

Just the end of it, and it's hammering my awareness like the gamma rays that a hydrogen bomb slams rudely and forcefully and absurdly into violent existence. But it's still there, the thing I'm all worked up about.

I look at it now and then again, and it's always an oldness. What it does to me, is it conveys to me a feeling of never having to breathe again, and being ok with that, and just accepting it without panic.

My Favorite Animal

Our teacher asked what my favorite animal was, and I said, “Fried chicken.”

She said I wasn’t funny, but she couldn’t have been right, because everyone else laughed.

My parents told me to always tell the truth. I did. Fried chicken is my favorite animal.

I told my dad what happened, and he said my teacher was probably a member of PETA.
He said they love animals very much.

I do, too. Especially chicken, pork and beef. Anyway, my teacher sent me to the principal’s office.

I told him what happened, and he laughed, too. Then he told me not to do it again.

The next day in class my teacher asked me what my favorite live animal was.

I told her it was chicken. She asked me why, so I told her it was because you could make them into fried chicken.

She sent me back to the principal’s office. He laughed, and told me not to do it again.

I don’t understand. My parents taught me to be honest, but my teacher doesn’t like it when I am.

Today, my teacher asked us which famous person we admire the most. I told her, “Colonel Sanders.”

Guess where I am now…

A dream - Impaled

A nightmare. Horrible.

Two Mexicans on scooters are riding down the highway, a man and a woman, middle-aged, dumpy. She's following behind him, then he tips over and takes a spill, and she stops. He gets up and walks angrily back to his scooter, as if the wreck was her fault, and he picks up his scooter and hits the woman with it and knocks her off of her own scooter. Then he walks over to her and kicks her in the head.

She's in a daze but she manages to get to her feet. He picks up a heavy piece of junk from a nearby pile and hits her in the chest with it, knocking her back down. She falls onto an old sofa that's in the junk pile. He picks up an old board from the pile of junk. It's jagged on one end, and he walks over to her with the intent of stabbing her with it. She's big and strong, so she picks up the couch and blocks the thrust and then heaves it at the guy. He takes off running into an adjacent field and into a ravine and she runs after him, more concerned than angry.

He scales a cliff wall on the other side of the ravine. She finds an old disused ladder and props it up against the cliff and climbs up after him. As I'm watching this I'm trying to think to the woman, no, no, no, he's going to push the ladder, don't climb up there, he's going to push the ladder away from the cliff and you're going to fall, but she keeps climbing up, and I'm thinking to myself, how does she not know what's going to happen?

When she gets nearly to the top he pushes the ladder away from the cliff and she falls backwards and lands against another cliff wall. The ladder falls away, and she's stable for a moment, but she begins to slide down the cliff face, and then she falls forward in earnest. She falls face first for a long time, screaming and flailing, and I find it hard to continue watching even though it's a dream. I know this is going to end badly. I'm shocked, because just five minutes ago they were riding their scooters down the highway and nothing was wrong at all, and now this woman is faced with her imminent death.

As she falls, she flips over, and I think she's going to land heavily on her back, but she lands in a thicket of dead trees and is impaled through her back and out through the sternum by a sharp branch. She screams and struggles and screams and screams and screams and its just horrible, the most horrible thing I've ever dreamed. I can see every detail. Every tiny single little detail. The angle of her legs as she hangs there, with little splotches of blood on her blue jeans, the slight bouncing movement of her limbs as she flails and struggles weakly. Her  white t-shirt with the jagged end of a tree branch protruding from it, with a growing red stain expanding outward. The horrified look on her face and her wide open eyes as she stares straight upward and just screams and screams with her mouth wide open, in such pain, enduring such pain.

I'm actually fighting back tears as I input these words, grieving for the suffering of a woman who isn't even real, just a figment of a dream. Can you believe that? I've never had a dream this horrible, this detailed, this visceral.

As I watch all of this in my dream, I'm hoping that she'll die soon. That she'll die very very soon and that it will be over and her suffering will end, but she doesn't, and she just continues thrashing and screaming. To make it worse, my dream camera zooms in for an extreme close up of the point of impalement, and I can see a previously unnoticed side branch that has traveled through the back of her neck and exits right under her chin. Her situation is unimaginable, unthinkable, impossible, but there it is, there it is, there it is there it is there it is

Then it became something I was watching on TV, and dad got up and changed the channel. And I was disappointed. And I hate myself for feeling that way. It was just a dream but I hate myself for feeling that way.

Stand inside

It's just really sensitive... is that the right word? Sensual... no. Immediate? Painful? Up close? High resolution?

Anyway, it's that kind of imagery, that I've just failed to describe. If you've ever been in love with someone for years, then just conjure up that feeling.

What I mean is, that's what this here is about to be about. The words that are about to appear line up with the feeling that I was just trying to describe. I'll leave you to it...

It's a song, though. You Kind of don't get the full impact unless you hear the song. Whatev. I hardly ever post song lyrics, so here goes.

For the last time

You're everything that I want

And ask for

You're all that I'd dreamed

Your home is here

Within my heart

And for the first time

I feel as though I am reborn

In my mind

I'm telling you how much I need and

Bleed for

Your every move and waking sound

In my time

I'll wrap my wire around your heart

And your mind

Who wouldn't be the one you love

Who wouldn't stand inside your love

Protected and the lover of?

The middle of a moment

Have you ever been in the middle of a moment, say for instance...

And then only realized, after the fact, that the memory you'd just made is the feeling that you've been searching for, but couldn't ever find?

And that you can never ever ever make it a present moment thing, even though you remember it that way?

That thing I just said there, that I wrote up there... that's a big problem in my life. Doesn't seem like a real problem, does it? Funny though... but it is.

Ok, here it comes, finally. It's raining leaves.

(I'm outside)

Ok, here's one! This will be one of those, the memory of what's happening now, as the front pushes in.

(It's blowing cold, and hard, outside)

Wow. I kind of just want exposure to have it's way with me, here, outsized in it, because wow. I can really feel it, Without any chemical help.

(And everything's lit up under the sky, but ain't the wind cold)

It's a moment, that I only live for, like I was saying wallago.

Isn't that funny? Here's one of those impossible to remember moments.

Dang.

Run through with a paper clip

I can't believe this just happened. I'm having a little bit of trouble wrapping my mind around it... but as far as I can tell, uh...

I was just about to go to bed. I was getting ready for it. I just wanted to go into my bathroom nook and use the bathroom before I went to sleep. Is that a whole lot to ask?

Stepping, walking, doing the ambulatory thing to the bathroom nook and...

OHMY GOD OWWW WHAT OW...

And then I collapsed onto the frikin floor and, jeez.. I don't think anything can prepare you for the sight of a part of yourself having been impaled, run through, from one side of a part of you to the other side of that same part of you.

THAT'S WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO MY PINKIE TOE DAMMIT, A PAPER CLIP, SHOVED STRAIGHT THROUGH, IN ONE SIDE AND OUT THE OTHER OH! FU....!

DAMMIT! !     ! Z. !

Ok. I'm in little bit of shock. It ain't every day that you see a piece of yourself run through from one side to the other with a piece of metal. I can't find the paper clip. I yanked it out. I didn't even feel it when I did that, although I was expecting it to hurt like hell.

I couldn't believe what I was looking at, before I yanked it out. Not a special effect. Not part of the storyline. No budget at all. In one side, and out the other. I sat there and howled something awful for about two and a half minutes. I sounded like a wounded animal, for quite a little bit of a while.

It's kind of funny, now that I think about it after the fact, but it still sucks though. Oh, and it hurts too.

Dammit. What the F.

Ok, here's a picture of the blood from it. Dayum, but didn't it spurt. Look at the spurt marks.

Dangit. I can't believe a paperclip went all the way through my toe.

Dangit. Ow.

Just ow.

F.

Outlines

Tonight I was out walking, and there were low clouds that reflected city light back down into everything. 

Especially evident were the silhouettes of things. I spent a couple of minutes tracing the skyline of trees and rooftops  against the oddly illuminated night sky. Several times it felt like a dream. It feels like a dream now.

Lots of houses had their curtains drawn open and lights on tonight. Maybe it's because of the pearly light outside. I stopped each time I noticed and looked inside. The interiors of living houses fascinate me and attract me. That lives happen in there. Actual lives, that I'll never know about. So many loves and closenesses and things that really matter... things that really matter to so many somebodies, that I'll never ever know about.

It feels wrong somehow. The separation of us from each other.

So catching a glimpse through a window of a coat flung onto a banister is an intoxicating validation of my hope that love exists as a real thing, and that suffering is a natural counter-balance which exists to open up insight into gifts like these.

What else but love could bring such a thing into existence, a carefully constructed stairway railing which exists solely to provide careful support in order to protect a precious life against the calamity of chaos?  And the fact that such a love is ubiquitous in nature and never scarce, is proven by the coat which is casually thrown over the trailing. Evidence that such careful love must be so common as to be taken for granted.

A happy ending.

What my night is like.
I go home, after work.
I get ready to go, some place.
I do it almost every night,
I don't know where I'm looking for.
I got my music
I my battery
I got my alcohol
I got my lifeline
I'm ready.
You'd think a person
Would get tired of it or
Rid of it.
Truly Amazing, how it
Never gets boring.
I guess there's a waiting thing
Happening.
I mean, why do this
Over and over and over and over
Unless I'm waiting for, or
Anticipating some kind of
Change.
By the way,
I ain't trying to be a poet here.
I'm just drunk and it's easier like
This,
Line by line.
Seriously.
I remember I was talking about
A change.
An anticipation.
See, I remember. I ain't that drunk.
Anyway.
It's like...
I never have time to myself
Anymore that isn't just sad
And depressing.
Sure, there are diversions...
But do all diversions, are all
Diversions supposed to lead
To the same place?
Back to the same feeling.
Back to the same place where
I thought I started from?
When did it
It's like
This is how it
This is how it is
This is how it got...
You know, though, I'm really
Lucky to have a good sense
Of humor.
I mean... otherwise the horror
Would be full time horrible
But at least it's
Occasionally funny
Because I have a good sense of
Humor.
Plus, I'm a real chickenshit
Deep down
Cause I'm way too scared
To put a gun to my head
Hey I bet you weren't expecting
A happy ending.

Whoops, my bad.

Tonight (last night actually, I'm writing about last night tonight, but I started writing it last night, when it was tonight last night so when I said tonight wallago I actually meant last night) I went to Walmart to buy some HotHands, because it's getting a little chilly at night now, and check this out... I need to keep my phone warm. That's right, it ain't for my hands. It's for my phone.

That's why I went to Walyworld, to get a phone warmer, because my phone craps out when it gets cold. Yeesh... just yeesh. So after I did that, I purposefully took the path behind the shopping center because I wanted to listen to music and sing out loud too, and I didn't want to offend/scare/kill anyone (har har... more on that later). So I did that. I took the path behind the Walymart to Bonnie Brae, and loaded up some music that I haven't listened to in years... Danzig. I loaded up Danzig, and whaddya know, I still remembered all of the words! So there I went behind the Mal-wart, singing all of those Danzig lyrics at the top of my voice. What do you think could go wrong? Take a wild guess. Whut? No guess? Ok, I'll just tell you.

So there goeth I behind the Martywaltz, and I'm singing Danzig, loudly. And fairly well, you know?  But also scarily. Frighteningly. You can't help that when you're singing Danzig though, because you know... Danzig. The whole package is like, uh... say for instance, if Elvis were to clamber up out of his grave and form a new band called 'Elvis and the Dementors'. That would sound pretty much like Danzig, I think.

So that was happening, and in the middle of it I did a quick sweep-survey of the immediate terrain, then I checked in with Echo Base, and I was just about to issue an 'all clear', when... whut the heck? There behind me was this young girl - young, as in probably in her early teens - about ten meters back and a little to the right, just a-strolling along behind me, through the construction area behind the Allfart, at 2:30 AM.

AARRGH! I went, in my mind. So I immediately curtailed my solo performance, because... well, because, you know. Little girl. Geez... but then about a geez-and-a-half later, I was suddenly possessed by an insane resolve, and I thought to myself:

'Whoever this kid is, it's allowing itself to be bombarded by my Danzig performance behind the Ballshart... I mean the Walmart, according to its own choice. Why then should I feel the compulsion to ix-nay my performance? Just because I have an accidental audience? Very well then, I shall perform!' And thusly fortified, I continued forward, wailing.

After a couple of verses worth of solid wails, I caught a glimpse with my peripheral vision of that girl running past me and making a bee line directly toward the chain link fence which separates the area that's under construction from the front parking lot. She didn't stop AT the fence as much as she was stopped BY the fence, in that she purposefully impacted it at full speed for the sole purpose of getting there as quickly as possible, at which point she immediately attempted to scurry up and over the thing to freedom and safety.

Well, dingleberries! There I'd went and done scared the living daylights out of that little girl with my Singing Demon Impersonation. After that I saw no choice except to shut right up and attempt, oh so carefully, to walk straightly forward as quickly and quietly and nonthreateningly as possible, so this I did.

Eventually my path became perpendicular to her position at the fence, and when it did, I couldn't help but to look, and when I did, I could see that... huh? She'd... why, she'd up and gone and went and did and done took off her shoes, and was scaling that chain-link fence barefoot!

One part of my brain, the detached aloof part, was thinking, 'Ah, smart girl, to remove her shoes so that the gripping characteristics of the vestigial toe appendages may be more effectively employed! This must be an ancient behaviorial mechanism passed down over the eons through the genetic lineage of our primate ancestors. Interesting how the 'fight or flight' response is, even in modern homo sapiens, still determined by basic instinct as the most effective means to expedite escape and ensure survival, thus guaranteeing the continuation of the strongest genetic heritage via natural selection.' At the same time, the other part of my brain - the horrified, self loathing part - was thinking, 'Damn, what kind of  monster in the closet under the bed am I? When did I let this... THING... happen? OH MY GOD WHAT HAVE I BECOME?

So, properly horrified, I hastened to remove myself from the situation, both physically and temporally, at the maximum speed allowable utilizing my limited powers of locomotion. And do you wanna know what happened next? Do you wanna know that? DO YA?

What happened next was this. I had just about almost gotten to Bonnie Brae, when whaddya know, right out of the blue, who goes whizzing by again? Yup, that girl! She's not sprinting this time - she's speed walking, and she means business apparently, because she actually brushes me with her elbow as she whooshes by, jacket in one hand and shoes in the other! She hadn't even put her shoes back on! One second I was alone and properly chastened, and the next, WHOOSH-NUDGE-SEEYA, there she goes, arms pumping and bare feet flapping on the pavement! A quick hook to the right on Bonnie Brae, and she's gone!

DAMN! WHAT THE FUCK JUST HAPPENED!

My sky

Wow, I feel like I might fall over. My knees are kinda weak. Nothing to do with the ankle or the sore leg. A crazy moment just happened, a rare one out of a few... one out of maybe a dozen in a lifetime.

What happened was, I was out walking after work, as I am wont to do, and I was listening to Pearl Jam, as I usually want to do. I was listening to Black. That song goes way back for me as a heartbreak song. My first real heartbreak had that song in it... her name was Erica, and she's long gone. But my love for her is still there, in that song.

Isn't that funny? I hardly ever think of Erica anymore, but the love is still there, under a whole lotta cellar doors. And if they all get opened, there she is. That lovely hurt is right back on the surface, as fresh as a brand new wound, for a moment or two. It's not a bad thing... just a memory of a love that was, and of a feeling that still is.

It's like that for every girl I've ever sacrificed my heart to. There's a place in my heart that opens now and then for each one, and if you could watch an unfolding timeline of my entire life, those heart openings would be visible as major events, even though they're random and not really of a because. They happen, and they would be there, like bright red blood splatters, but pretty.

I know I digress a lot, so just know firstly that there is no secondly, and that I didn't forget about why I started writing this thing that I'm writing. It's because of a major event that happened tonight, and I felt that some exposition was needed before I got into it, and I think I've done that. I think I've expositioned what I need(ed) to say. I don't know what exposition means.

So I was walking along, it seems like eons ago now... Yeesh.

Anywho. I had just exited the C_V_S on University Drive, and I'd put my headphones back on to resume my Pearl Jamming. 'Why Go' was just finishing up, as it had been playing as I'd been checking out at the counter (I always take my headphones off when I'm at the checkout counter), and so the next song, 'Black', was happening as I put my headphones back on when I left the store.

I had just gotten to Carroll, walking down Sherman, when the song got to that part... you know that part, it goes like this...

"I know someday
You'll have a beautiful life.
I know you'll be a star
In somebody else's sky,
But why can't it be mine?"

And just as the memories were opening up because of the music, and just as I was starting to think about putting Leah into that memory, because I still dream about her almost every night for years and since, and because I haven't buried my love for her hurt yet...

And just as that was about to become a thing that happened, I saw a shooting star. Really bright and really brief. Black and brief, in my sky, I think... wasn't that my sky?

Statistics

Current population of the US - 320 million.
Current number of addicts in the US - 25  million.

Approximately 8% of the population of the United States are drug addicts. Wow, doesn't that sound ugly? What if I rephrased it...

Approximately 8% of the United States population are addicted to drugs and/or alcohol. Hmmm... that's better, but still somewhat abrasive to the senses, and therefore undesirable as actual knowledge.

What about this... 23.8 million United States citizens, or roughly 8% of the population, currently struggle with substance abuse.

There! Now it's clinical, yet personal... intimate, yet quarantined... rife with intelligent statistical data, yet accessible to the simple sympathies of the overwhelmingly common asshole which comprises a something or another amount of the rest of the population of butt-heads do-gooders nay-sayers shit-snackers fart-knubblers butt-munchers yuck-nuckers and blue meanies.

Or, to put it a little more truthfully... a big-ass portion of the world population of human beings are turning to drugs as a means to simply 'stick it' in modern society - that is, to make their lives merely tolerable, as an alternative to blowing their brains out all over the rug and leaving just the worst mess for somebody to have to clean up, because that's just rude.

Did I mention that I happen to be one of the lucky 8%?

Wait...

Did I just say lucky? Hahaha! Apparently my subconscious has a morbid sense of humor, just like my awakenous! Hahaha. Huh. I meant unlucky. Har har hardee HAR HAR, motherfucker. The joke is on me... and you, too!

Seriously though, you do see how the joke is on both of us, right? How I typo'd the lucky without the 'un', which is a joke on me because I made the typo and because it's tragically ironic or something, but how it's also the joke on you, because you didn't know at first that I didn't mean to type 'lucky' instead of 'unlucky', so that you might have thought I was being jokingly tragically ironic? You understand that, right? What I just explained, about how the joke can be on both of us? You get it, right? Good. Onward, ho.

It's like rolling up a D&D character when you're born. You get all of these strengths and weaknesses, which manifest as various physical and mental attributes. You're good at this, you suck at that. You're more prone to this, you're less prone to that. It's just overwhelmingly likely that you'll be absolutely miserable and afraid all of the time ever, it's underwhelmingly unlikely that you'll be well adjusted and happy and just generally ok with yourself and your life.

So on the average - ignoring for the moment specific contributing factors such as demographics and genetics - the average US citizen has an 8% chance of becoming an addict at some point in their lives.  That is, you're more likely to come down with a 'pretty bad case of cancer', in the... in the general stomachly area of the abdomen, or something... to which you can refer to people by kind of vaguely patting your tummy, indicating the presence of... something malignant, I guess in the general area of the tummy... than to actually become an addict.

I honestly can't decide which one I think would be worse. I dunno. Can I trade in my addiction for cancer, to give it a test spin? Just to see if I like it better? Who do I talk to about that? Obama?

I have super reflexes

Lately I have super reflexes.  Within like, the past year or so... maybe a year and a half. 

I've been making spectacular saves left and right. Catching things that fall off of, bounce away from, slip through, or blow past other things, such as shelves, receptacles, fingers, and awarenesses.

Like paper for instance, which is especially hard to catch while it's aflutter. And also things that would normally break and shatter and make a horrendoufying mess, like a  plummeting wine bottle that I'll just happen to save miraculously with my instep, like a hackey sack.

Plus, wayward objects like smart phones and hot spots, which go flying away from and out of, like wet bars of soap.

And other things, such as beer bottles and salad plates and wine glasses and babies tossed into the air in rooms with low ceilings and high speed ceiling fans.

So, yeah. That's been happening, the whole 'holy shit, I've got super reflexes' thing. Seriously, I ain't trying to be funny. I've got suber-uper reflexes now, where I never did before.

It's got me thinking. Like, you know that trope where somebody discovers a thing that makes them awesome for a short while, only it's for some ridiculous price... like you gotta watch your dog die horribly, or you have to have sex with your uncle, or maybe you just flat out die after 24 hours? You know?

I'm thinking that must be why my reflexes are so good now. I think I was probably sleepwalking our something, and found some kind of cursed magic lamp with an evil genie that granted me these super reflexes. And now I'm just waiting to find out what the curse is.

Or, the other possibility is that I got abducted by aliens, and they gave me super reflexes, just for the helluvit.

Or, it could be that I'm the alien, like Superman, and I'm only just now starting to develop my superpowers, because I'm going through space puberty.

Any one of those reasons is just as good as the other. It's just so hard to choose which one I like best...

DANGIT!

I'm nuts

I just took this questionnaire online after googling 'why does life always feel like a dream', and the result was 'severe depersonalization'. That's what the dream feeling is. Depersonalization. A result of isolating myself from reality due to severe anxiety.

Oh...

I'm nuts.

Well, that's not really a surprise, I guess.

What is surprising is that it all started to gain momentum and really become a phenomenon after Jerral died, and that it took a year and a half for me to realize that that's when I stopped going to church... almost immediately after I had learned that Jerral had killed himself.  It wasn't a conscious decision.

My shadow

After only a few years of walking in circles, you'll come to know your own shadow very well. It becomes a recognizable caricature of yourself. A simple description that surprises you, upon realizing just how much of yourself you've invested in it. It's you, undeniably. A dynamic, always shifting outline, describing the motion of your life. It's always colored black, even when it's in full color. It may seem as if essential details are missing, but the motion of the black is rich with representation. Details are superfluous. The outline, the shifting outline of the black, the uniform ingredients of the shadow, the outline, the border of the smooth, unperturbed interior, is all that's important for meaningful identity. If you only take the time, and make the effort to notice... it reacts, to what you're feeling, to the motion of your life, as a picture of your life, through a filter which un-taints the seeing of it. It shifts and stretches, and squashes and fades and disappears, and reappears faithfully, reflecting a picture of yourself for the lower part of your eyes that see what we've forgotten how to remember, and it's always there. You can count on it, even if it's not there. You don't ever have to be afraid. It'll always come back.