mahiwaga

Realization one: (preamble: This is really not in any coherent order. I just thought I’d write it all down before I lost my mind, which is likely at this juncture)

So far, I have only determined two possible outcomes to the average person’s life. The first is to let your soul die. (This is my terse “poetic” phrase for it.) You know what I mean, around the age of 30, it’s time to stop fighting entropy, time to be “responsible,” go to work, buy a house, get married, etc., etc. It doesn’t bother you any more that you’ve sold out, you just have to get through it.

The second is simply to go stark raving crazy. ([You should get bonus points for doing it in very few steps.])

I have a very bad disease, of which I am not entirely sure I wish to purge myself of, that being, I feel that I am mobile when I seek control. (No, no going back, just keep writing this dreaded spew, I feel like I’ve gotten diarrhea both mentally and physically, no stopping, goddman it, not even a moment to gather my thoughts. I’ve never felt this angry, sad, maniacal all at the same time before.) I am everything I wish I were not or I wish I were everything I am not, some sick shit like that, so alone. No one can possibly understand it, or is it (yet, most likely) some goddmaned egotistical conceit, as if no one had ever taken this path before, been squeezed tight by obligations and filial duties you never know when the handcuffs are coming down, latching to your wrist.

I understand now. It really wasn’t for a single moment. I choose option two, hoping to God that there is an option Three. Lunacy, here I come.

So it’s like the morning after the binge, and all that you can really do is puke it all up, hoping with each puke that it’ll be the last, you’ll feel better, the deadly poison gone. But you’ve been drunk often enough, you know it doesn’t stop, not even when you’re all empty. It only diminishes, like a knife blunting with every true strike, until you force yourself to hold something down, damn the pain. And still you’re empty, unsettled, disturbed mentally and physically, wanting to die just as much, if not more than when you drunk yourself into a stupor in the first place, worse because the woozy carefree oblivion is now just a wracking throb, and why, oh why, is it so goddamn pointless?

But you have to throw up, it’s not for you to control, less so than when you took the poison in the first place. (Fight Fate, Rhyme Saves.)

So I’m throwing up, figuratively speaking, having learned the futility of doing it for real, hoping I’ll figure out the same thing soon for this mental variety.

You know life has got you by the balls when all you’re looking for is the exit, some reprieve from the pain of this mental hell. What crushed the life out of you, I wonder, when salvation comes to you in the form of two blue pills?

Oh, the exquisite torture, I don’t have to, yet….

          I am drawn to this aching hell
          moth-to-the flame syndrome?

          Fuck this.

Oh shit, can you tell I am having a wonderful fucking day?

So I have seen a vision of this reality, still convinced there must be a third option that does not demand insanity (there must be middle ground between everything any way. The quantum energy levels may be finite, but surely they are multifarious….)

Albert stand upon the thin edge of an enormous razor blade, which floats above an endless abyss of sulfurous fire (yes, call it Hell if you will). This razor blade is exceedingly sharp, cutting [deeper and eeper] into his feet inexorably, [eventually slicing through his entire body]. Needless to say, something has got to give.

Now, the way I see it, Albert has three options: One, fuck this shit, I’m jumping. Despair triumphs, the demons are cackling. Two: stay on the razor. Yes, eventually, it’ll kill me [as it slices its way up my body], and it [will hurt] like a bitch [until it finally does], but a long unhappy life [may be] better than a short pointless one. Three, imagine that the sensation of metal cutting your flesh is the most exquisite pleasure of your entire life. I abbreviate this option as the insanity option.

Now, if going insane were merely a temporary proposition, a quaint way to perhaps pass the time away until things pick up, well, then I’m all for it. Knock yourself out. But in this situation, it’s pretty much an exit-only type of proposition (well, no, I guess we all know that the abyss always wins in the end, but that doesn’t really matter.) I have a hard time swallowing the idea that insanity is some sort of acceptable alternate pathway of existence.

I’ll admit though that in Albert’s extreme situation, insanity does seem like the way to go. It’s just that in real life, the choices expand to infinity (well, not really—in terms of their essential character, really just infinite variations of the [same] three choices—but somewhat true in that the order with whic you string together Option 2 and Option 3 against the backdrop of Fate/Random Chance will make a difference. It is assumed that you are forced to make these choices at every conscious moment, i.e., throughout infinity, or close as the human mind can get.)

And people tend to lock you up when they realize you’re insane.

I suppose it troubles me that there is no room for happiness in this bleak model of the world, but all I can say is that it is really hard to talk about something that you have almost never experienced. (Hyperbole, of course: [I just] haven’t [experienced it] for a while.) And I have a feeling that if (when??) I do, I will have Option 4 worked out. But for now, I suppose it will have to be insanity.

Tried to make a few calls to help me solve my conundrum. Wouldn’t you know it, no answers. As I suspected, this is something I’ve got to do for myself.