Kicking Speed

I do not want to complicate this thing too much because I’m afraid that I won’t say it if I do, so here are some quotes I’ve posted to social media in the last  36 hours.

“I’m done with amphetamine you guys, in the pills and the clear. I’m throwing out all my shit. It’s taken a lot to even say this openly, whether it’s been obvious or not. It’s been affecting me too hard again. So it’s time to get off again.”

This is probably a thing that is beyond obvious to people who know me well, and it’s something people who don’t know me too well probably have occasion to suspect.

I do this while pretending that it’s something that it isn’t in my brain so much that I don’t even admit it to myself when I am alone, or doing it. Awareness of what is going on is a thing that the drug steals from you, because it forces awareness to be stuck in little crevices.

So it’s hard to imagine how someone can be using, not aware they are using, and not talking about that they are using. Telling a great many lies about your destructive antisocial patterns becomes a survival skill. And I can’t even believe that I am saying this, but which is why it’s important…

I’ve been sober since October 2nd. This is the usual amount of time I go between binges. Around this time I start to get tired of being tired all the time. I will have slept enough to start doing it all over again. And I have definitely been thinking about it, but more often lately the aspects I’m so sick of are more apparent to me than my lethargy. It takes like a week to stop sleeping all the time, but it takes like a month for your mind to even start to be unaffected by the week of use. And it probably takes longer than that for it to ever really be, if you can even say that’s possible.

This is all I have to say.

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Why Nothing Matters Necessarily

The truth is, I don’t care about whatever I was writing before. That I didn’t finish it, or the mental state I was in at the time that disappoints me so, to see how alien and replacing of me it can be; I don’t care. I don’t care about this sentence, the last one, or the clause structure of anything.

A lot of people saw my nihilism develop from a truly depressed state. Unlike the unaffiliated, doppelganger infested mind that I see traces of passing by like strangers today and in recent memory (what little there is, and how off and on it can be), there was a far more dissatisfaction with life and existence. It was an extremity of such. Suicide wouldn’t have been enough to solve the problems of the world and it’s suffering to me then. I thought, truly, that the only way to make it right would be if not just everyone and everything died simultaneously in an instant cataclysm, but if a certainty that life itself would not re-emerge somehow in its cycle on another speck of dust with the conditions; that would be the only way. I thought, feeling a deep disgust at the passing of birds overhead in the sky where the sun was gently coming down to a basking wet humidity of sweat and misery. Life itself and all its allergenic effects on me colored my view of how feasting upon itself and propelling itself ever forward, we all persist for the perpetuation of the suffering.

I wondered hypothetically, if I had the switch; if I had the nuclear armaments and in enough quantity, placed equidistant all over the world such that a detonation could eradicate existence even for just life on Earth if not for all eternity, would it not be truly the most noble and good thing if I took the responsibility to make it happen.

I said, “Only if every person dies at the same time, such that the suffering of life is not left on the ones remaining. If only then it would be for the best.”

But I would ask, “Even if it is for the best, and if it is what I want, is it okay that I might decide for everyone what is best for them; to give them my idea of what will be for them. Do the ends (a peaceful oblivion) not justify the means, if the only way to achieve it is to stand in opposition to people who would fight me to the exponential increase in the world’s suffering just to try to stop me. If I had such a power, there would be people who would choose to suffer just for the chance to live.

And for this reason I said, “I would not do it. But it would be for the best if others would accept this.” And in my mind, always with an ideation of suicide, I imagined the only way out I could be okay with. It only worked if everyone died. I couldn’t leave behind suffering like that, in my view of self interest. So I said, “This is a thing I cannot do,” as I often thought of how I should do it.a

My nihilism arose from this but it did not stop there. A lot of things changed, time passed, I became a different, wiser person, and I realized the folly of my feelings.

It was true that there was nothing of concrete value making it all worthwhile to endure, but it was this certainty that I began to define what I called, “the true nihilist;” that is, one who does not despair existentially at all, knowing that there is no reason to.

Yes, there is suffering. I suffer constantly I would say without even being aware of it a majority of the time. This is the thing that people should accept. There is no oblivion and this is a momentary glimmer, to be followed by another having no sense of the one before it some day. All will crumble an d everything will be forgotten, and because of this, there will always be a possibility for things that seem to always be the same, or too awful too endure; maybe changing too fast to keep up with — even the best of times that ever were — are subject to a stability brought about changes innately varied in alignment towards law and order. There is nothing that is so permanently constant that it’s reality diminishes anything otherwise, so there is nothing to despair. It doesn’t matter.

And this is where peace lies. In attachment to things, you are unable to move forward into what will be wrought with or without you. You become a helpless passenger. In fear, you lose sight of the power within you to build your life into what you would have it be, how no circumstance must shape the feelings inside of you, which are your own. There is nothing to blame but yourself if you cannot attain this.

I am no Nietzschean, but this is how I hold the will to power. There is power within you to make life anything you would have it be, and though there will always be suffering washed up in the sad and happy things, it cannot stop you if your will to power remains calmly in control of the most stressful madness that can possibly be endured; that most would crumble and be left to streets, prisons, psych wards… And when left to those things, with discipline, a will to power carries on with no reason to complain and a mind clear of despair.

Otherwise, it would be silly to say that you are a nihilist at all; perhaps, maybe, you are on the path to becoming one. But, this is a path facing madness, one that many likely cannot find their will to power knowing. And, given the nature of things, it is of course possible… that to madness, one day, it will be lost.

But I will never give up on being content in spite of all things. This is why nothing truly matters, and I let go.

xxx

xxx

It’s a good thing I don’t often write here, that you have likely forgotten this exists at all, similarly to how I do myself.

It’s possible I will relinquish any former design of what I wanted to write here, and it is possible I will occasionally make a return to them. But… right now, what I want to write is going to be more difficult to write than anything I wanted to write a week ago.

It isn’t that I can’t organize it. It is, can I be openly honest about it. And, if I tried to do that, would it be possible for me to know the truth about myself that I cannot understand now.

Making Sense of My Own Ridiculousness

I write this the morning after publishing Making Sense of Skinhead Reggae, part 1; technically, according to the time stamp, 7 hours ago on the listed blog post that I would love to open  up in the editor to fix it — or at the very least, rename it, “Making Sense of My Own Ridiculousness.” But I can’t do that without being a hypocrite, can I?

I suppose it’s possible that there may be a difference in things you edit for different reasons, and that I could potentially maintain my rawness and still fix things that… that there was somehow a good reason to decide to hold back and fix. But, because I cannot distinguish often at times if not always when it is a good and bad time, and as a result have often felt in the end like many things I’ve written were a waste of time… to at least, be taken so seriously by me as a writer. I believe that… this is possibly why I stopped a decade of habitual writing all the time and slowly sank into feeling like it was not worth doing, until the habit was finally gone.

I’ve mentioned this before and how I’m not sure how much this has liberated me or set limits on me. The truth is, it has done both.

The things I have written since I gave up serious writing have been Dadaism in themselves, the sort of thing that I never hesitated to simply shovel on to a Facebook post after that where it can be scrolled over by the attention deficient people of this era who likely didn’t even notice it in the phantasmagoria of scrolling things.

It isn’t so much that it wouldn’t be read that is the issue. It’s the platforms that became suitable for me to write in. I didn’t keep a private journal that I hoped would prepare me for my “works,” which I imagined I was supposed to create to validate my self worth.

What was I if not a writer; the thing I had always been praised for, the thing I had spent so much of my life doing as if it was an important thing I needed to do.

The Dada philosophy I mentioned in Ideas Intersect has certainly taught me how to love myself and be a happy person, coming from the person I used to be who anything but that, and I’m grateful for those lessons. I use them now to be unashamed, bare, and and open about my failures without fixating so much on the importance of what it means to fail or succeed; which in Neon Dada, there is no such thing. I say again, this is a valuable “truth.”

But…I also enjoy writing, and I haven’t done it as often. I don’t think I consciously stopped with these thoughts in mind. In fact I know that I didn’t. But it makes sense to me a lot, especially as I try to write something half serious and discover again the flaws that make me inefficient at times — completely dysfunctional at others.

And there is an example right here in my last post. It doesn’t feel good to attempt to write something you know how to write but have your mental state come out more apparently than what you want to intend. It is very frustrating. It possibly makes me not want to continue things that I start, making it easy to unconsciously forget them maybe the way I do. I know that I am far less excited about what I wanted to write, overthought, and did not write.

The truth is, I feel  thatI could have easily downsized what I wanted to do into something sensible if I hadn’t been imagining less what I wanted to talk about, and more how it needed to be so convincingly thorough that my argument would be complete. It’s as if in contradiction to my own values [the dual aspected deity], because there is no absolute correctness my argument could possibly achieve… Similarly to how there is no state of perfection that the pursuit of perfection will ever attain.

I don’t think the pursuit of improvements in how well you understand a thing and the work you do as a result of that understanding is necessarily a negative thing to think about. But it clearly can interfere with productivity and result in something out of control, or irrational. It can result in… the sense of failure that I’m sure many artists, thinkers, engineers, builders of things, scientists, etc; have often felt no matter what they did or how much they are thought to have achieved by others, or not.

It seems impossible for me to write anything without a personal story, psyche column involved in it, because it’s just too obvious what a nutter I am. I do want to be writing this personal confession diary shit. But the truth is that I have to suck it up and do it, because the only other option is to delete my post, pretend it did not happen, or maybe go back to fixing it and do the same thing all over again.

It’s quite embarrassing, really, that I couldn’t see at the time. This is supposed to be a zine where I can write about something easy and fun to write about, like music, if not among other things.

But especially after I’ve gone through all of these thoughts in the last two postswritten — and even some of the ones from before — I feel like I am no longer comfortable with the idea of not writing because of how I feel about what it reveals about what i can and cannot do.

In the spirit of Dada also, I feel like if I can’t make the thing I intended to make often times, then I have to continue to make the things that I did not intend to make.

…because, no… It’s not important that I write anything, and nothing that I write needs to feel intentionally important in some manner. But what is important is that I feel content with who I am and what I do, and have no need to hide as if there is ugliness or beauty at all anywhere.

I have taken many great steps to be happy and would say that in spite of these feelings I am still happy, but I think the next step is facing the few things left that I am still self conscious about. w

And maybe one day I will be half as precise as I wish I was, but maybe I will not wish that I was something I am not, too. And I think both options are okay.

Making Sense of Skinhead Reggae, part 1

Breaking a two weeks or more-long silence in which this zine unwritten is actually being written again, today’s post will [attempt to] thoroughly discuss the phenomenon of skinhead reggae, how it developed, and what it developed into [but will not be able to finish itself in this single post].

Of course, there will be YouTube links to various track uploads, to color what I’m talking about and explore the many variations of related things that and how they are connected.

If you’ve been following my music column (or just generally the postswritten to this zine thus far), you’ll notice my current interest in a variety of aspects of Jamaican music, dancehall culture, and language; and, from varied time periods, from ska, to rocksteady, roots reggae, and the dancehall music of today, I have written about these eerily similar sound system crazes — all connected, very much similar in ways so much that they are sometimes seen as being indistinguishable (easily described by the word reggae, for example) while also nothing remotely alike in any form.

I’m excited about this post because it inherently involves the story of how and why I have hated skinheads since I was 15 years old, not as someone who is ignorantly only aware of the existence of a skinhead as synonymous with a white nationalist, but as someone who has seen their effect on a subculture I was once very a part of — that is, Bush-Era street punk in South Texas — and resisted the threat of what they represented at what were places I went to and considered my spots to hang out, where the music was a form of street punk I could relate with, and the people were all mostly, more or less like minded enough to have peace; until the resounding and in unison war cry surrounded you.

“Oi!” That’s when you realize they are massive, you are alone, and if you are not aligned with them (and you’re god damned right we fucking weren’t), then you have to resist the pressure that is placed on you to be like them — to transmogrify for the sake of a so-called unity and join in crews they will never admit are very much like gangs. If you will not do this, you are on fragile ice. You can either run or you can fight them, and there is never just one of them. They are massive or they are not at all. If you’re a fifteen year old punk rocker, you keep your head down — or you don’t, you know, because you’re a punk rocker of fifteen years — and you will either run from a beat down or you receive them. You might even decide to engage in violence yourself, because you have a zero tolerance policy for fascism in your scene, and you kill it wherever you see it the same as they would kill you.

I’ve thus far only introduced and outlined the things I need to discuss to illustrate the points I want to make clear and the things I want to connect, acknowledge, and use to hold the conclusion I can finally make about the skinhead phenomenon, which at fifteen years old, not knowing the distant history and how far the skinhead had traveled and how it had molded him, I could never make but finally can. So, I’m going to split this into thee parts as this is quite complex.

On Skinheads, Their Good Taste in Music, and the Folly of their Utter Ignorance
(is that really the title I’m using? Whatever… that’s the title.)

1.) The Spirit of ’69 – This portion will require many of us to pretend that we have never heard of a skinhead and understand how the origins of the culture are quite interesting, seemingly harmless enough, and little known to most people today who associate the word with white nationalism — which for this portion, we’ll have to hold off on talking about to explore skinhead reggae (which I happen to think is actually great music), and how the blending of the Jamaican diaspora with British, cockney people resulted in a seemingly positive racial exchange and a “reggae fever” marked by shaved heads and otherwise very particular, uniform, and sharp dress style.

2.) If the Kids Are United… – Next, I’m going to have to explain how skinhead culture crossed paths with punk rock after 1969 had passed and how neither culture would ever be the same after that, resulting in a list of new genres that come about from an unintentional recipe for hatred and violence laid out when the skinhead and the punk rocker will unfortunately take politics to the streets, and experience a less positive attempt to assimilate together. Also, this will address why skinheads may have been less like-minded with Jamaican diaspora as the 1970’s came closer to the 1980’s.

3.) Post-Skinhead Ignorance – This will be a final conclusion, in which I consolidate my experience with American skinheads as a punk teen in the 1990s/2k into my adulthood, well-read self who happens to currently be pretty into first wave ska music, which… only the skinhead can be said to still feel that way about first wave ska in the same way. In the homeland of ska, ska music is outdated. And I mean, it’s been outdated since before I was born. It’s hardly even referred to as itself by many, because it’s just early reggae that hasn’t for a long time been done without being more reggae than ska (not probably since about… 1969). That said, I will ultimately have to conclude how skinhead culture has always been intrinsically predisposed towards a development into a complete militancy powered by an embrace of ignorance… about everything; and why skinhead culture should not be celebrated just because they understand ska music, (which is amazing, [and much better without skinheads in it.]).

And yes, I have totally just published a postwritten where I outline the post yet unwritten. I know. I’m utterly insane. If I were a professional writer, or if I had the desire to produce myself in the way that one does, I would set this document aside and use it as a rough draft and outline to do the piece, which I will say is big enough to warrant this kind of outlining if not this kind of editorial.

But I don’t do that. I don’t edit or manufacture myself. I don’t enjoy doing it. I don’t want to. Often times the typos you find are ones that I overlooked in the drafting of the document and have become well aware of and have intentionally left them as is.

I suppose I don’t sound like a too stereotypical obsessive or compulsive person, do I? If you’ve read the psyche column at all, you might follow what I mean from there. I sort of do have the capacity to spend my entire life editing a document for no reason, in which no amount of corrections or do-overs will ever produce a thing that doesn’t require further editing or abandonment.

Choosing to leave myself manufactured, raw, as-is, one take to get the shot, whatever happens type of “artist” has never been an easy decision to make. I wanted at one time to leave a masterpiece on the world. I no longer do. I want to leave myself, flawed as I am, content and happy to die with my imperfections.

So I made a typo. Shrug. It most likely doesn’t matter, and so… if I’ve lost you and you aren’t following this foreword into the next posts that will come. So be it. I will gladly have you read, or listen, or watch; I’m not afraid to show myself. But… I’m not willing to destroy the beauty of the world’s ugly things left as they are, so that you lot can be the celebrated artist that is all you really care about anyway isn’t it?

That’s okay. Social acceptance and approval is a natural human thing to seek out to some degree if you are a healthy enough person, I should think. But… it is of little interest to me in terms of my non-art, which I will continue to create in a long winded way for the sake of itself — shamelessly.

It’s kind of getting to the point where all the columns (categories) that I’m using seem to intersect, even if they focus on one topic more than the others. Part of me would like to redesign the organization, stop using the categories the same way, but…

Logic tells me there is no need for that.

Otherwise, I have an outline of what I’m going to write. I have several albums in mind to share as I talk about various things. I want to continue writing this zine, even if it takes me a long time to come back to it sometimes.

If I save this as a draft, it will become lost forever. I will forget that it was important maybe, or that it was ever a thing I planned to do. The organization of it will prevent it from ever being published at all.

Maybe taking my time between entries isn’t so bad. Maybe it will be more manageable for me to actually read them again, and have it as such that of the many points I wish to make, the fewest of them will in the end be unmade entirely. My early LiveJournal blogs of daily postings suffered from an overflow of  things that were never worth organization. There was less management of any thought that I had, which is why I was never able to write anything but of my sadness and my glory like a teenager with a diary.

I don’t want to write for a sense of daily therapy. I want to say specific things in a highly unconventional way. I want to make my points, and I want to leave them at least in the open to be unmade.

I’m going to make a point to get back to this project in the next few days — not weeks or more.

I will ever have to apologize for the fact that… if you are interested in me at all, you will always have to wait for me to come back I’m afraid.

Organized Chaos

So, because I am not able to contain myself to a single topic on a single blog, probably the same way I am a so-far failed author of very long books that all have disorganized manuscripts that can’t contain themselves to a single story, I have to organize myself. A blog is definitely much easier to sort than a novel would be, and… I’ve put down tens of thousands of words to dozens of manuscripts that I wrote in moments of inspiration that could not take the time to be organized.

Well, I didn’t always know this and I didn’t just learn it either, but it’s necessary to be organized with every step bigger that you get. Whatever it is, it starts with a loss of efficiency and speed, which are (in some things) also virtues to me. I’m fast at things that I do because I like to reorganize and breaks things down into their smallest parts so that I can make them run more efficiently if I can. If you were reading this post about giving categories to my writing, you might see how this can in itself get a little bit out of order.

I’m like conflicting aspects of the same deity. One is determined to reorganize everything not to a state of perfection, but to the state of searching for
perfection. The other brings discord to everything that it touches and revels in the possibilities of disorder. The first patiently cleans up for his well-being after the second, (and the impossibilities of disorder), who has no idea that anyone is even there in the first place to have to do this. Both discover amidst the turmoil of resisting one another how to 1) Discipline yourself. 2) enjoy himself.

You might rush to call this god afflicted with multiple personalities. I think it manifests inside me as affective type moods, and not like dissociative “personalities” — I don’t know. I think if I had some affective type pychosis from very manic states, followed by depression that wasn’t sad (just sleepy for a good spell and necessary) — which I don’t think it’s fair to call it psychosis just if involves hallucinations. I’m clearly not an expert and anything I know is a thing I read somewhere. But I think you have to believe the hallucinations are real sometimes if not always, and you have to think that things make sense that don’t. You would have no kind of internal or external logic.

Logic is the thing required if you are mad, I think. You can’t have faith in things that seem like they are true for illogical reasons. Or you can obviously, but it’s not a good mixture I wouldn’t think. That’s why the auditory hallucinations you often hear described are the voices of god and other random shit that logic doesn’t have any time for. So, whereas I might be like, “I saw in the flames what blah bity blah,” I am just like, “Hrm, that’s very annoying now (definitely not interesting anymore, to experience but, logically, I can’t really assume that if I hear the voice of god that that means there is a voice of god. Or whatever it is. It makes you take a back step. It takes bravery and and patience sometimes even to walk out into the world surrounded by what things are possibly not making your life easier to do functionally. And if you do for a moment experience a thing you are scared to believe or whatever, with a mind for logic and not for faith, you are more likely I would have to guess able to live functional life. I do my best. Luckily, this affective type thing means it comes and goes with the degrees of affective shifting. Any form of path to psychosis I might experience has only ever been the result of a given situation, that would not always remain to torment me in more mentally stable times.

I mean literally stable — as in neither down for the count depression or over the top manic force of nature — something in the middle.

If anything, the use of tags will allow me to continue points where I left them more easily. Or I don’t know. I’m not even certain that my organizations are always organized. I wouldn’t describe me as OCD, but I am capable of understanding what that might be like. To be so obsessed with organization that you are actually less efficient. The thought of this disgusts and terrifies me, so I cannot allow that possibility to be ignored without rift making sure that it will never get too out of hand (again).

I am ending up getting very personal on here, but there is a lot of personal things I’m going to try to avoid. but it’s impossible to have the psyche category without being quite personal enough, which is mainly going to include the amateur case study of my own self. It’s not intended to be thorough, however. This blog is a slightly too public “publication” for some details.

I can be a piece of work, but I’ve managed to be stronger than I once was and I think I deal with it, surprisingly as it seems to with time get worse, much better.

so, i’m fucking mental

I thought I would address it for any one who may or may not have noticed it yet: I am fucking mental.

I’m not trying to turn this into my nearly decade old LiveJournal from my youth, with a lot of glorified life and feelings diary entries… I do’t think I could write such personal drivel everyday as I did then, which I sometimes think may have been more unhealthy than therapeutic just because of how negative and horrible I could be. — But who knows. Maybe it was the only way I could get through it was to write that stuff. It was characteristic teenage angst mixed with a portion of some type of undeveloped vast pools of some type of intelligence that didn’t grow up well into its 20’s.

If you look the blog posts I’e done here, it seems like I came around intent to talk about ska and other Jamaican music, as well as patwah, and I wrote at length about that for a short time before I disappeared and came back to analyze my older writings, which I forgot entirely that I was even intending to do till a couple days ago when it occurred to me, “Didn’t I have a place I was writing?” just like I always do when I find some I made that I don’t really… remember, know who the person is that I see always, etc.

That problem is not nearly as bad as it could be, but other people definitely notice. Sometimes I struggle to get through work but force myself till I can’tand it almost would start the ruin of my work relationships, if nopt for that when I’m on point, I’m on point, and when I’m not on point, I’m well closer than a lot of other people, if depression is what nearly gets me fired, it’s mania that comes around and sends me into a torrent for several days in which I save the entire staff single highhandedly by solving problems myself and doing it so well that morale saves everyone from a failure.

Anyone can see that I struggle with some form of occasional mood disorder, possibly milder dissociative personality disorders, having episodic occasions of delirium and pre-psychosis that is so far been only ever temporary if it gets that bad, and never to a degree where I cannot tell that I’m hallucinating and what isn’t real. Well, not very often has that ever happened. The first times I was confused but I learned how to know through logical reasoning based on a lot of things hat is likely that vividly imagined things are present but not a need for concern because they are not real.

I want to write in this, but there may be times where I just seem to radically change without transition or acknowledgement of it even ever happening in my own mind.

This will often result in disappearances that you can’t explain, if it gets to be out of control.

I know I almost started working on literature called, “Unionists Against Communism,” which was intended to be directed at places like Texas, where fear of any form of social thing is viewed as intrinsicly dangerous, to the point that the entire state has refusded to facilitate good unions for anyone working there, but has also convinced the common man living there that the union is a disadvantage to him, by allowing a system of unions that have no chance of any success at all.

Working in the industry I work in, the need for unions is a bnig deal. I know a lot of people in my real life whose stories of their abuse at the hands of employers.

I also don’t want to turn this into talk about work corner, but ther point is that unions can be good and a thing workers deserve to have in their corner. And, that just because we are for some socialized programs and things that are paid for by taxes, that doesn’t mean we’re all, “PRIVATE ENTERPRISE SHOULD DIE TODAY FOR THE GOOD OF ALL
In general, Americanns and probably other similar places have a difficult time understanding that a socialized program doesn’t rabbit hole into absolute communist extremist, no more the opposite is true of people who see the value of capitalism but still understand that there needs to a government to check the power of the other.

A lot of good ideas in government get shut down in this place. The neighborhood in the city I live in is a fairly liberal one surrounded by the red. We’re too small a district of course and are drawn out to fail on maps, because black people live here. Gerrymandering, I believe it’s called: when the drawing of district lines uses population demographics to decide where the lines gop, thus making irrelevant entire areas of people. And yeah, common people here in San Antonio (the liberals you never hear about and the conservatives everywhere) can be very all or nothing and fervently all for something without any actual sound reasoning beyond just a profound sense of pride and greatnmess that for some reason is all important to some people.

So, my point is there are people who need a voice here in San Antonio, Texas, that for many reasons, people in the world don’t know exist. And it’s really time someone started to explain how we can be for unions and not communists to people who are too simple and from the country to understand it.

I confessed at length many different feelings for someone that’s my friend who already knows I’m super intense. I feel like I’m annoying to her. But, she’s been my friend a long time, knows me well, and puts up with me even if she can’t find the words to say to how fucked up I am.

I used to write a lot about my love life in my old livejournals. Now, I only occasionally have one and I’m just not interested enough in the game of it all to obsess over it enough.

The types of feelings I confess are vert fucking intense and forward, but they aren’t desperate and weak. It’s just the truth. And I know it’s probably just me who would go all that far with it and probably seem so delirious and insane to her (because I am), but it’s okay. I know for sure that she loves me enough that I could never complain at life or ask for more than that. She tolerates me. And she’s so sweet in her own way for that, because other people don’t do that.

I just wanted to tell her. And, I guess I told her a little too much. I guess that’s my trademark.

So, I’m not writing about any of the things I was writing about before. There are other things I recall vaguely writing that I didn’t mention, or post, but will probably find somewhere eventually.

It is getting more difficult to manage (functioning like productive person) but… maybe I’m just determined enough to make it happen. Lately I’ve been growing in that direction, and even if there are spikes of hard times, it’s overall getting better with my life over the last few years.

This post will serve to transition into something else, after a few weeks of not logging in.

over-thinking or just hella thinking?

So, it might be pretty universally considered a wrong move by bloggers, webmasters, and content creators online, to post an entry and then immediately follow it with the next entry after a spell of resting stillness marked with a mind like this one writing. And, it doesn’t bother me because I don’t care to present myself in such a way that I will generate a following ideally. I’m going to do what I do, and while I appreciate any interest in my writing, I can’t change how overwhelmingly intense I can be sometimes. If you can’t keep up with me, that’s not a big surprise to me. A lot of people can’t. And while I do have to keep that in mind when I deal with people, I’m not doing so as a writer. It doesn’t matter to me if my presentation isn’t conducive to being easily consumed. I’m doing it because I want to and this is how I do it.

So, as you can see, whether I’m tired or not, I have the capacity for thoughts that don’t stop. It’s a complex thing because… if my mind would chill out, I would rest and have a more comfortable, easy day of wakeful moods and so forth. But I enjoy the thinking. I enjoy the long way of saying a thing. And it’s good that I do, because… I couldn’t do it any other way if I wanted to.

Let’s see. I’m going to put on coffee… or something. Let’s think of how many hours I have left before -waking up-.

Five hours and twelve minutes. … I’m sitting up in my bed. I’m going to try lying flat with my feet on the ground for a moment.

Typing this paragraph some minute after the last, it was orgasmic to stretch out the arch in my back and release the tension of my body that just sits back up again to type on the laptop, strain my eyes longer with the reading lenses (all I’ve ever known) that aren’t enough anymore, and indulge in the mood uplift that music can bring to the weary.

But, I’m having second thoughts about that… coffee, which I Really might still make. Do I really allow myself to accept that I’m not sleepy and can’t sleep, despite the severe tiredness, the same problems on recent nights, and how much less brutal it would be if I slept a single hour (but of course, ideally two; three is too unrealistic to consider.)

If I take the Benadryl, I’m going to feel like anticholinergic ass for the next hour as I slowly become more distant and unable to focus, which will put me into a state of perturbed dreams most likely and result in an extra amount of confusion when the alarm finally occurs to me and I’ve managed to do something about it, pop out of the dream I instantly can’t remember but know was utterly mad and quite the annoyance. And on top of the extra, it’s going to be extra-extra because there aren’t enough hours for the drug to run its course. I’ll have to wake up under the effect of it, drag myself up, and somehow get to work without showing up late as fuck or no call no showing before I realize that it even happened.

These are the very critical concerns of an insomniac… At a point, does sleeping become more dangerous to attempt to squeeze in? Because let’s just be honest with ourselves. It’s not going to happen in the amount of time I have between my last night’s close and my this morning’s open shift without some form of pharmaceutical action. There are some awesome things I could have to take at times like this that would make this a lot simpler to get through, but I don’t have those things. What I do have is the pill I have always had to fall back on when I had to.

And then there’s the possibility that the Bendaryl will have wrought all of its side effects on me all night and into the morning, and I will still get out of bed having felt like I didn’t completely fall into zzz’s even once.

So, you can call it over-thinking. A lot of people think that about me. But these are things one has to think about, I would think. Or do they not have to and this is the only reason I’m not able to feel sleepy in spite of such tiredness? Could I just let it be that this was very simple, lie down, (not even take the wretched pill), and go right to sleep? I’m sure it’s a bit more complicated.

I don’t always feel like this, as I’ve said. There are times I have the opposite problem, where I can’t will myself to want to do anything but lay in my bed and snooze away the free moments. And it’s definitely a cycle of opposite problems that lead to the other problem. Being over exhausted eventually results in a hibernating torpor that groans to momentarily reach out of and drag itself to the moment where it can go back. That has its own difficulties.

And the cycle just goes and goes and goes.

It’s more complicated than I (and especially you) realize, but it’s been slowly (or rather rapidly, maybe) driving me crazy and killing me for years.

Fortunately, I’m pretty happy anyway. Sure, sometimes I endure suffering. So does everyone. But I practice acceptance a lot lately — I’m not a Buddhist or anything. This is just what I do and it brings me peace in spite of the strife, in a lot of ways. I try not to let the stress overwhelm me, though I occasionally falter, and feel content anyway in spite of anything that could possibly happen. I try to maintain this. Most of the time, I manage.

If you ever read my blogs or writings or LiveJournals or whatever from some years ago, like… literally anywhere from 2002-2013, you would find everything I did and said laced with anger, sadness, despair, depression; all characterized by wildness of the mind. I suppose that’s subjective, but… Let me just leave it at that.

I deal with a lot of the same issues I’ve always dealt with. In some ways, some of my issues are much worse. I am, after all, older. But the one that is not much worse is that I am not unhappy about things I can’t control anymore. There aren’t things I can’t have that I lament so badly all the time. There aren’t atrocities, tragedies, and horrors I haven’t looked dead on and accepted for what they are without breaking down.

But I deal with a lot of bullshit still. It’s just that… I’m pretty good at dealing with bullshit now.

And part of that skill is the fact that I know that I need to lie down rest my body, let my mind do its thing, and if I have to have my coffee in the morning (I do), I’ll have it. But having it now would be fairly masochistic and not even willing to chance rest.

And so, while I’ve not said everything on the matter, I figure it’s best to let it be at that. I won’t get started on the posts about different types of music, bands, and so forth that I’ve been meaning to write about and intentionally forego sleep with several hours left.

But I’ll tell you this for certain: I’m not taking that Benadryl. If I was going to do that, I should have done it hours ago, like I said in the post from earlier when it was still last night. But there were a lot of reasons I didn’t, as you can see.

I’ll go ahead and end with a random song that I would normally say something about in these posts, but which I’ll let just speak for itself again.

It’s interesting because I’ve come full circle. This is the music I listened to as a teenager, which was influenced by music I never really knew much about, and now am having such a phase that it brings back the memories.

I nearly started going into all these different opinions I have about various waves and elements of ska and blended ska genres. Because, I really want to.

But right now, this post about how hectic my sleep and work life can be is far more prudent to throw out there and end with.

And the funniest part is that I got out of bed to post this maybe some hour later, am about to pour my coffee, and then some. 😛

I hope that someone can relate with the struggles of the mind described, which I admit at times does over think things to the point of interference. But sometimes, things are worth thinking about at length, I think.

‘(healthy body, sick mind; it’s just a matter of time; sick body, sick mind)’