Post #14 – Incomprehensions, Reason and Grandiose Beliefs (featuring Edgar Lee Masters)

Today, dear friend, I realised I had become a faulty puzzle piece: incapable of communicating with you. The sound of my voice left the bubble of my mind with powerful distortion. And my magnified words, filtered by anger and resentment, would weigh heavily in your ears, incomprehensible. And of course you would confuse the strain on my face for disgust.

I think my words might have changed, grown darker. Maybe what makes perfect sense in my mind is gibberish to your ears. Was I really that simple, only five years ago? I wonder what happened during this time: I have not only lost my mind, but maybe my grasp on reality as well. Or rather my ability to settle and adapt to your reality. I envision myself as clever and thoughtful, and for this reason maybe I feel superior, to the likes of people who avoid preoccupation. But maybe I am delusional. The doctors say I’m delusional: they say my ideas are grandiose and impossible and, unlike everyone else, you seem to agree with them. If I’m delusional why am I like honey to all these clever bees? But who are they to deem me a role model, who are you to profess me unreasonable, who are any of you to judge? Every unexplored and unconventional field of science, knowledge or consciousness has been deemed grandiose at some point in time.

I am not convinced that there is a page for me in the annals of history. I’m not even sure I shall contribute to the world order in anyway. I am simply following my gut, which for once in my life seems to be in accordance with my ideas, with science and with progress. So what if my ideas are grandiose and unrealistic? If any of you could give me a semi-accurate description of what reality means to us all, I might take your arguments seriously. But you are all clinging with a vice like grip to what you know and you’ve been told. You call me irrational but even logic and reason are irrational! You are accusing me of deviating from a perception of the world that has been proved incomplete. Who is to say that mine isn’t more accurate?

Maybe this “psychosis”, “dissociative state” or whatever, has been the most realistic aspect of my life. I have no conscious grip on this part of me. And my conscious reflections are made up by all I have learned and stored. But what we’ve learned and stored may be wrong. Maybe my thoughts are too influenced, and I cannot see clearly. I am only ever certain of anything when I hear things and see things that others do not. I am certain then, that that is my reality. If only I can see it, it means no earthly phenomenon has put it there to change me and teach me. It is pure, immoral and inhuman. Maybe it is a very visceral and honest part of me and my essence.

I cannot know this at this point in history and certainly cannot claim such a folly through scientific logic. What I can do is listen to my gut a bit more, and do things that make me happy, whether they be clinically validated to do so or not. I may go through many ups and downs, critiques and miscomprehension’s, but never will I ever give up on a life of courage, love and beauty. I will not let fear control me or let apathy grasp me in it’s comfortingly numb tentacles. To understand and to accept the beautiful and dangerous beast that is life, but not to fight and push it away. To contemplate all with lightheartedness and childish curiosity, but not to empty my head of all that could potentially harm me.

On this note, here is a pretty awesome poem by Edgar Lee Masters:

I have studied many times
The marble which was chiseled for me —
A boat with a furled sail at rest in a harbour.
In truth it pictures not my destination
But my life.
For love was offered me and I shrank from its disillusionment;
Sorrow knocked at my door, but I was afraid;
Ambition called to me, but I dreaded the chances.
Yet all the while I hungered for meaning in my life.
And now I know that we must lift the sail
And catch the winds of destiny
Wherever they drive the boat.
To put meaning in one’s life may end in madness,
But life without meaning is the torture
Of restlessness and vague desire —
It is a boat longing for the sea and yet afraid.

(George Gray, Masters E.L, 1916)

Post #13 – On Relationships

A person I love very much once told me: ‘if you want to be happy, you need to surround yourself with people who make you feel happy, and eliminate relationships that cause you negative emotions’. At the time I didn’t agree with this person. I believed that suffering for those you care for and sharing their pain was an act of love and affection. For this reason I have often put other’s happiness before my own. Today, after much consideration, I have decided to follow this person’s advice. The ironic element of my decision, is that it is precisely this person, or rather the world he lives in, from which I have decided to distance myself.

I still believe what I did a few years ago: the word relationship, whether it be referred to romance, friendship or family, implies a certain duality and interaction. If this interaction is one sided, it is not a healthy relationship. The world we live in is far from being perfect and I believe that everyone has their issues and their suffering. A relationship occurs when both parties are prepared the take a bit of the edge of the other’s pain, and take a bit of their weight upon their shoulders.

However when this weight becomes unbearable, and comes at the cost of severe personal unhappiness, the relationship is no longer healthy. I do not believe in long term obligations and commitments, or in forcing these to persist against all odds. Helping those we love, and sacrificing other aspects of our lives for them, ought to be an act that in some way makes us happy, and has a cathartic effect on our existence. Seeing the pleasure that our actions cause on another’s face ought to light us up and not drag us down. When our sacrifices put us in a place where we are angry, scared and become more of an obligation than a natural act of kindness, I believe our negative disposition may hinder rather than enforce the relationship, making the other even more unhappy and guilty for making us feel their pain.

Distancing ourselves from these negative environment is perhaps, the only way we can safeguard the relationship. I believe that fear makes us cling to situations we no longer have under control. Forcing relationship changes us, and can lead to anger and envy. Of a painless existence, of easy air to breathe. Today I have decided to recognise the forcefulness of this inauspicious situation and take a step back, not just for myself but for us and everyone involved.

Traduzione in Italiano Post #12 – Primo Appuntamento Psichiatrico

(for English version see below)

O forse dovrei dire, categorizzazione dettagliata del soggetto difettivo. Mi sono sentita sotto scrutinio non appena ho varcato la soglia del suo ufficio. Un giovane medico, riccio e quattr’occhi, uno dei migliori nel settore, mi osservava con sguardo saccente, cercando da subito indizi per inserirmi in una delle sue organizzatissime cartelle di categorie malati. ‘Lei parla sempre così veloce?’; ‘sicura di aver dormito questa notte?’ (grazie, mi fa piacere sapere di avere la faccia sconvolta); ‘lei gesticola e si agita molto, mi sembra nervosa’. Se i pensieri fossero tangibili sono certa che lettere della parola IPOMANIA gli uscirebbero dalle orecchie.

Se mi domandate quale contributo abbia avuto questo incontro nel mio percorso di crescita personale la risposta, molto sinceramente, è nessuno. Ha semplicemente svuotato considerevolmente il portafogli dei miei genitori e rievocato quella macchinosa immagine di me stessa come schiava di questa società capitalista: quell’ immagine da cui cerco così tanto di distaccarmi. Mi continuo a domandare quanta sia l’importanza di parole come ‘stato dissociativo’ e ‘distimia’ nell’aiutare le persone a vivere meglio con se stesse. Il mio nuovo amico dottore so-tutto-io direbbe certamente che sia fondamentale, per poter specificare oggettivamente i malfunzionamenti di chi soffre di instabilità mentale.

Da un punto di vista di paziente e di essere umano socialmente interessato, ho tre parole da dire a riguardo: OGGETTIVAMENTE STO CAZZO. Non esistono caratteristiche interamente oggettive quando si contrastano diverse personalità. Quello che avrei molto voluto domandare a questo psichiatra è: come fa ad esser certo che parlare veloce sia un segno evidente di uno stato di iperattività? Mi ha incontrato per la prima volta dieci minuti fa: è così assurdo pensare che io abbia forse una personalità un po’ vivace? O che forse, dato che abbiamo solo sessanta minuti, anche piuttosto costosi, insieme ed io ho molte cose da dirle, io non sia minimamente inclinata a parlare lentamente solo per evitare i suoi presuntuosi giudizi?

Il suo metodo diagnostico, caro dottore, è così prevedibile che io, che non ho mai studiato medicina o psichiatria, intuisco ciò che sta per dire prima ancora che lei apra quella sua boccuccia insolente. Per non parlare di quanto io trovi insultante il fatto che lei mi venda informazioni del tipo ‘il bipolarismo è una malattia di base genetica’ con la certezza assoluta di uno che ha capito ogni segreto dell’universo. Sono la prima a pensare che i geni contribuiscano in parte alla personalità ma, se non lo sa la scienza con certezza, non lo sa neanche lei. Chi crede di essere per proclamarlo con tale convinzione?

Io comprendo l’importanza di strumenti diagnostici nell’ ambito della psichiatria, e so bene che esiste una significativa ricorrenza di tendenze e comportamenti in chi soffre di simili disturbi psichiatrici. Quello che non comprendo affatto, è la fede più assoluta che vien data alla scrupolosa categorizzazione dei pazienti, che sono, a mio avviso e credo quello di chiunque altro, in primis degli esseri umani. Non lo ritengo solo presuntuoso, ma del tutto illogico e irrazionale. Solo perché a un individuo è stato diagnosticato un disturbo bipolare e in un particolare momento capita che questi stia parlando rapidamente, non implica automaticamente che stia un una fase ipomaniacale.

C’è una linea molto sottile tra l’utilizzo di criteri diagnostici come uno strumento per capire e affrontare negli difficoltà individuale, e l’ utilizzare i suddetti criteri per costruire l’immagine di un individuo tutto nuovo, sul quale si può lavorare facilmente seguendo il proprio manualetto di sapere acquisito. E’ la stessa logica per cui, nonostante si utilizzino modelli microeconomici per semplificare e capire il comportamento del consumatore, non significa necessariamente che se questi vengono applicati al mondo reale, conducano a risultati accurati. La realtà è più complessa dei modelli teorici. Le persone, le interazioni sociali, le attività emotive e le funzioni cerebrali, riguardo le quali anche la Neuroscienza è alle prime armi, sono estremamente più complesse.
Non sono un esperta in campo, nonostante abbia fatto una sostanziosa quantità di ricerca riguardo le cause di disturbi mentali ed il dibattito natura-cultura. Mi ritengo tuttavia una mente critica ad aperta, che è particolarmente suscettibile a generalizzazioni e disinteresse. Proprio come reputo patetici coloro che si aggrappano fanaticamente alle loro credenze, religioni ed ideali di veduta ristretta, così trovo ridicolo ed arrogante che pionieri di una disciplina ancora così incerta ed inesplorate, si ritraggano come profeti di verità assolute.

Post 12 – Psychiatric Appointment #1

Or should I say, detailed evaluation and categorisation of defective subject. I was under severe scrutiny the moment I walked in the door. A young doctor, bespectacled and curly haired, a know-it-all expression and one of the best in his field, stood before me. I could feel his wiseass eyes on me, searching for clues to pin me down into his neat little tables. Do you always talk this fast?’; ‘did you sleep much this night?’; ‘you are fidgeting and gesticulating a lot’; ‘you seem nervous’. If thoughts were concrete, I’m pretty sure letters of the word HYPOMANIC would be spilling out of his ears.

‘Just like I find it pathetic when people fanatically hold on to their close-minded beliefs, religions and ideals, I find it ridiculous and arrogant when pioneers of a discipline that is still widely uncertain and unexplored, ostensibly portray themselves as prophets of absolute truths.’

If you ask me what purpose this meeting has had in my quest to self-understanding, the answer is, quite frankly, none. All it did was render my parents’ wallet significantly lighter and re-evoke the image of the drone-like, capitalist society slave me: you know, the one I’m trying so hard to be rid off. How important, I ask myself again and again, are diagnostic words such as ‘dissociative state’ and ‘dysthymic’ in helping people get better? Very much so, my smarty pants new doctor friend would say. Fundamental, even, in objectively mapping out what is malfunctioning within people who are mentally unstable.

From a patient and socially interested human being’s perspective, I have three words to say to this: OBJECTIVE MY ASS. There is no such thing as an exclusively objective trait when contrasting individual personalities. What I would have very much liked to ask the doctor today is: how exactly do you know that talking fast is such an evident symptom of mania? You met me for the first time ten minutes ago: is it absurd to think that it may just be part of my personality? Perhaps, seen as we have only one, rather expensive hour together and I have much to say, I would rather not talk slowly for the sole purpose of avoiding your presumptuous judgements.

The evaluative methods you used on me today were so predictable that I, who have never been to medical school or studied psychiatry, knew what the next question was going to be before you even opened your mouth. Not to mention how insulting I found it that you felt entitled to feed me information such as ‘bipolar disorder is a disease which has biological roots’ with such absolute certainty, as if you had the key to understanding all the mysteries of the universe. I myself believe that genetics plays a part in many psychiatric conditions, but if science hasn’t been able to prove it with certainty, who are you to proclaim it with such conviction?

I understand the importance of diagnostic tools in psychiatry, and I am well aware that there is a significant recurrence of particular traits in psychiatric conditions. What I do not understand is the absolute faith that is given to categorisation when dealing with patients, or more generally, with people. It is not just presumptuous, it is downright illogical. Just because someone is diagnosed bipolar and happens to be talking fast, does not directly imply that they are in a hypomanic phase.

There is a fine line between using diagnostic criteria to better understand and deal with individual difficulties, and using said criteria to create a whole new individual on which you can work according to your booklet of conserved knowledge. It is the same reasoning for which, although microeconomic models are used to simplify and understand consumer behaviour, it doesn’t necessarily mean that when applied real life, they lead to accurate results. Reality is more complex than theoretical models. People, social interactions, emotional activity and brain function, which even neuroscience is at its early steps in understanding, are especially more complex.

I am not an expert in the field, although I have done significant personal research regarding the causes of mental illness and the nature-nurture argument. I am however a critical mind who is particularly susceptible when it comes to generalisations and carelessness. And just like I find it pathetic when people fanatically hold on to their close-minded beliefs, religions and ideals, I find it ridiculous and arrogant when pioneers of a discipline that is still widely uncertain and unexplored, ostensibly portray themselves as prophets of absolute truths.

Post # 11 Ventotene


My stomach churns and my brain sways with wine and waves. The sun burns and I feel ridiculously happy. My feet skip gently on the volcanic rock, my body high and moon heavy. My rock, I am a rock! My empty space, my nature – a habitat where the buzzing stops, replaced by cicadas and a clash of deep blue. The mighty cshhh… The world is shut out by the echoing silence. The people are cactuses, blended in mud and rocks. The only colour is blue. Everything is blue, I think I’m turning blue. Maybe if I sit still enough, I’ll fade into this rock. If I sit here long enough the tide will rise and the blue will eat me whole. Maybe it will kill the green and I will be one with this cave, my true colour at last.


I can’t put my finger on the people over here. They seem lighthearted, merry and intellectual. Yet I still feel clumsy, heavy and uncoordinated. I remain awkward and I can’t express what I’d like to express. I feel as if their camp of love is too structured in its being unstructured and I can’t find my place in it. I feel embarrassed and awkward at the intimacy, of losing my fears and inhibitions in their midst. As if I have a role to fulfil and I’d be judged a prude if I didn’t live up to expectations. I suppose I just don’t like being a sideline. I do not sparkle here, I’m just a fish in the sea. Here I don’t even serve entertainment purpose. I’d rather be alone maybe, where I can gawk at myself and my thoughts.


I thought this year would be a blank slate. I’m not new here, I’m old and consumed. The comments and judgements remain those of my childhood and everyone here is missing a piece. A rather large, constructive piece. Isn’t it ironic that it is easier to communicate with strangers that with loved ones? We see each other through the lens of our history and it is often too hazy to be clear.


Up the gods rock,
To the top of the island
I climb – a lucky guest.
I’m crowned in laurel

And bigger than the sea.
Round and round
The sparkly heavens shove me;
The pitch black

Catches me.
I’m a microbe, a quasar;
A pillow, a knife!
I’m ready, I’m hazy

Your nightmare, your prize.
Have I yet the courage
For the dive –
The big dip.

I’m still green and weary
I shall dry up or slip,
Into death
and oblivion and dread.

Newton is dead.
Why are we still clinging to a flat Earth?
Observe the atoms,
Ride the waves.

It is me I see
In every crook and corner.
It is me who sees,
It is me I see.

I am your Frankenstein
You mighty organiser
You puzzle maker
You forgot to flip the light switch.

You stuck me, colourful
to a monochromatic Earth.
Unrelentingly chasing
Hidden meanings,


Post #10 Dear god, gods, fate, absolute, moirai, fortune, karma, destiny, chaos, whatever…

How does one lose one’s mind? It is the loss of control that is feared, and ‘pathologised’. The big dip into the unknown, the unscientific. But have we not passed this phase? Newtonian science is dead: why are we all still clinging to a flat Earth? We’ve broken it down and it doesn’t make sense. We must observe, observe, decide the atoms, ride the waves! It is me I see in every crook and corner, it is me who sees, it is me I see.

Where is the will, whose is the will? I’m not black and white, nor a perfectly imperfect human being. I’m orange, purple, gold, blue, red and green. You’ve made a mistake – I am nuts and all-seeing! I am your Frankenstein, oh godly unknown. It’s hilarious really, how rational you are to the defeated rational mind, you mighty organiser. You puzzle maker.

You screw, screw, screw with our minds, you screw with our kind. You curse us with godly curiosity and ungodly means. It’s a laugh! And all I can say has been said. Has the magic all run out? Nothing new is to be born here, it is a dying Earth. Minds and bodies are drying up. The weak and meek succumb, and the fiery hearts fight the wrong monsters: desperately chasing fireflies, distractions for the petty minds.

This is the kingdom of human deceit, where Politics, Economics and Allopathic Medicine rule. Where people believe in Human Rights and Peace; in Happiness, Art and Morality; in Love and Revolutions. Where woes are drowned in inebriation, technology and addiction. Where the desperate seek solace in corporal death, mistaking in concrete reality the source of their sickness.

I don’t know how to change, I don’t know where to start. I’m no visionary, I’m no warrior, I’m no god. My path is drenched in ever-changing colours and I’m not incendiariously motivated. Why me, why me? I’m quite typical I feel. It is their words, their faith, that burn inside of me! Why did you make me despise death? I see colours yet you have stuck me with indelible glue to a monochromatic planet. Tapered down with obligation and fear, you made me despicable and immortal.

You could have, at least, made me blind and content.

Post #9 Goodbye Lancaster

Orange and gold
Through the stain glass window
Brighten the churchly silence
And the unyielding heart.

Foxgloves and orchids
float in the air –
I could hatch my eggs right here;

Behind her undeserving shrine,
Casting darkness on your lonely burial.
Lord Ashton, you fool.

I’m high in the dungeon,
The statue is headless.
Are we talking about the walls
Or drenching ourselves in useless sadness?

On the tree stump I forgot
If you mattered to me yet.
You were shrieks, nettles and streams,

Red leaves and silly dreams;
The laughs and the pints,
The sly glares and all my fears:

All my hazy window seats.
I’ve forgotten why I care
But I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.

And I forgot to walk the promenade,
I forgot to warm the bench
And I didn’t drown my thoughts
In the marshy quick sand.

I forgot to match the pretty face, ask –
Did the chemo go okay?
Yet they loved me anyway,
I who could never afford their pain.

I forgot how to be grateful
With my flesh my flesh my flesh.
I forgot the date, the present and the letter
And I can’t recall why it ought to matter.

This is the bubble, the cell block,
The lithium drenched infirmary.
Here we don’t feel like going to bed
Or to die a slow death in the library.

Here the sky is white and clinical
And the crystals didn’t catch my breath
And I didn’t smell the fresh wet leafs,
All I saw was corpses and death.

Now I’m sober, I’m cold, I’m clever.
I disgust myself more than ever
And I leave you with a humid heart,
My lower second class grave, Lancaster.

And the people in those houses
Oh, they laugh and dance dance dance
And they grab my hand and twirl me round
I entertain, and I am bland.


Post # 8 Dissertation Blues, Psychosis and Capitalism

‘The university system, I realised in that moment, is nothing more than a capitalist panopticon, aimed at discreetly making me, and everyone else, fit smoothly into this sickly world order. (…) As a place of intellectual stimulation, it is a complete failure.’

In this post I shall recount a recent psychotic experience, which has led me to a profound revaluation of how I interact and react to the world around me.

I was recently unpleasantly surprised upon receiving a negative grade on a dissertation project in ‘Philosophy of Medicine’, which focused on the diagnostic difficulties presented by paraphilic disorders and their definition in the DSM-5. If interested you can find my essay here. 

This piece of work encompassed much of my personal reflections on mental health in general, and writing it helped me out significantly in a period of great personal distress. For this reason, the bad grade represented a very personal and intimate defeat. Upon setting my eyes on the unexpected unpropitious mark, the ‘unquiet presence’ in my head, who so often criticises everyone around me, turned her disgust on me. She accused me of being useless and incompetent, worthy only of a miserable pass mark. I tried, effortlessly to push her away and regain my grasp on reality, but all it did was make my head hurt like hell, shoving me into a state of confusion and detachment which was all to familiar.

I distractedly let my friend lead me onto the woodland path that surrounds my university. My eyes went fuzzy and the leaves on the floor below me began to move and shimmer like worms. Taking further steps filled me with such dread and discomfort I couldn’t bear it, as well as the now in-comprehensive shouting in my aching head. I pushed my way through the prickly bushes and onto the main road, where the yelling abruptly stopped. I was left vacant and annoyed, at myself and the world for being such an unfamiliar and mechanical place.

In my anger, I suddenly realised that I had just had a practical lesson on the foucauldian notion of power I had been struggling with that same morning. Foucault describes a new, modern for of power, that organises society hierarchically through the means of knowledge mechanisms (determined by the discourse of a particular time – in this case the capitalist values of competition and production) which, in a world of complete transparency and observation, rank and punish individuals through praise and blame. We think in a way that makes us view certain things as normal and right and others as abnormal. About other ‘insignificant’ and unimportant things, we often do not even think.

This university system, I realised in that moment, is nothing more than a capitalist panopticon, aimed at discreetly making me, and everyone else, fit smoothly into this sickly world order. It is becoming with increasing invasiveness, an instrument for transforming individuals into pieces of paper and productive drones, in a world so ingrained in competition that there is no longer space for the creative and imaginative human spirit.

‘We are so scared of making wrong decisions, which ‘can affect our entire lives’, of momentarily stopping and deviating from these ‘essential’ activities, that our fear of being ‘left behind’ gives us no time to reflect on our feelings and wishes.’

As a place of intellectual stimulation, it is a complete failure. The majority of the students and academics I have met in my three years of undergraduate study, hardly seem to love and appreciate what they do. It may indeed be a subject of great personal interest that which they are studying, but the pressures that are impressed upon them prevent it from manifesting itself as such.

We are so actively and entirely engaged in the need to prove ourselves valid and worthy (ironically through tiny little numbers on a transcript, which seem to be our only key to self-determination) that even the things we love become an incommensurable weight. We are so scared of making wrong decisions, which ‘can affect our entire lives’, of momentarily stopping and deviating from these ‘essential’ activities, that our fear of being ‘left behind’ gives us no time to reflect on our feelings and wishes.

‘Unlike computers, people are constituted largely by determined knowledge, education, abilities and conserved memory, but also by the creative and emotional ways through which we store this information.’

I came to two life-changing realisations that day:

1. That I myself, with all my convictions and claims of independence, am entirely enslaved by this system. I am so ensnared, that a silly bad grade, given to me by someone who means nothing to me, sent me over the brink of insanity.

2. What I also realised, (being the Economics profit-weighing student that I am) is that in determining and constructing us so thoroughly and mechanically, society is not really creating a more productive world.

The reason for this is really quite straight-forward: people are not machines. Unlike computers, people are constituted largely by determined knowledge, education, abilities and conserved memory, but also by the creative and emotional ways through which we store this information. What I radically believe to be the main failure of capitalism, is that in creating its machine-like masses, it has under-estimated the full value of the raw material on which it operates. The emotive and creative spirit of man, is not as coercible and influenceable as would be required for a similar system to be effective in the long run. It is sufficient to look at widespread human behaviour to see how it constantly squirts out of the facade of perfection of our world. Alcohol and drug abuse are widely diffused (especially in nations that enforce prohibitionism); statistics on mental disorders are disturbing and, especially in the younger population which is subject to intense performance pressure, individuals struggle with depression and anxiety which decrease performance.

When people reach their limit, they explode. When the pressure of society takes too much of a toll on people’s personality, they lose their minds, commit suicide, become insane or turn into mass-murdering psychopaths. Even when they don’t reach their limit, their performance is still not as productive as it potentially could be. Their abilities are stumped by alcohol and drug abuse, demotivation, anxiety and other personality weakening conditions. Furthermore people attempt to deviate and fool the system, by cheating and hiding their activities from regulative enforcements and laws.

We express our malaise and anguish, using our constructed statuses of superiority over others, treating people who think differently from us with viciousness, contempt, bullying them to feel better about ourselves and failing because human emotions are not a zero-sum game.

Perhaps, precisely how this teacher acted in my case.

Post # 7 Nighttime Frenzy

The outside air is sharp and crazed:
The breeze, the fever, my head in a haze;
How did you resist the deep dare of the dark?
From your window, the sky suggests safety and light,
My guts din and dance in a chaos of sparks
And I run as a child, with no aim, in delight!

Joy, frost, ducklings and breeze
In our hair, with seduction and laughter
I tease you away from this bleak pallid world,
Towards cosmic, magic, rhapsodic symmetry;
Souls and bodies embraced in deranged symphony
All those secrets and certainties fiercely unfurled!

Forever unsleeping we’ll live, you and I,
We’ve no need for the slumber and the idleness, you and I;
Don’t they see, don’t they feel, the bustling euphoria?
Oh, my fingers could dance this dance forever, my mind
So many worlds and ways and wills could wander.
Thick brows, dark eyes, framed in curls of amber

Unruly as my soul, ostensibly beam at me
And this beauty I now grasp, won’t relinquish or enrich me.
I shiver in the cold, at the promise of spring…
Up the tree all the stars, share our frantic delight
Of the books and the feels that still keep me up at night;
And I’m sheltered from the morals and manners they sing:

‘Now stop it Mercury, you’re insanity is gushing
From the core of your reckless wickedness, and burning;
We’ve no heart for this blame, we’ve no time for your pain.
You’re talking too fast, you’re delirious, you’re rabid
you consider yourself clever but you’re merely big mouthed!’

And the squeamishness and guilt and the fear creep back in:
I am meat, dust, and disgust, yet again.


Post # 6 Maybe I Should Just be Your Friend

Maybe I’ve got it all wrong. I must have misinterpreted something, it’s too confusing to be true. Maybe I’m just an antisocial idiot, with a fancy for big words: an arrogant existentialist with a chip on my shoulder. I love myself, wretched, damned and attractive, love how big and important this unbearableness feels. What if simplicity isn’t too dumb for me? I love myself too much, I hold myself too high – am I unbearable, insufferable and vile?

I’ll just let my devious thoughts all go to hell, I’ll talk to you. Goodness knows, we might even be friends! Rejoice together, appreciate all things, the small and the big ones. Give labels and names to everything we know. For certain. Nothing will be heavy anymore. I won’t feel nauseous at the words slipping off my tongue, at the people slipping into me.

No more thumping in my ears, no more hating. Things will all be yes or no. We can talk about anything and everything, set up a firm set of morals and make them true. We can be righteous, kind and strong – certainty will prevail all! Maybe I won’t even feel …

… that scratching feel inside my gut,
saying that it makes no sense at all!