Things that Get in the Way, Chapter Nine.

I actually have up until Chapter 15 written, but before I post them all I'm going through them one by one and polishing...like teeth or shoes or penises...

Something else you need to know about me is that I have a lot of trouble refusing help to women in distress. Remember that power I mentioned before that they have over me? Well here it is again. The girl that I had slept with just yesterday standing on the street corner looking for a place to stay, I can do nothing but offer her my accommodation. I don’t know. It’s just the way I was brought up. I look down at her from the stoop I motion for her to follow with my hand as I open the front door. Like a gentleman, I hold the door open for her. She walks ahead of me and waits for me to open the lobby door, which I do. Not even a thank you. What a bitch.

As we make our way up the stairs she pinches her nose shut and whines. “Someone should really clean this place up!”

I nod my head and continue on silently. I’d grip the railing, but the stolen gloves are in my wallet, and I’m afraid of it otherwise. She is too, which is pleasant to see.

“Good God, what a stench!” She goes on. I’m starting to hate her more and more.

“Shut up and keep walking,” I want to say, but I don’t, because I start to remember how I felt the first time walking through that hallway when I moved in. I thought I was going to die. It reeks of mothballs and plague and shattered dreams.

As we enter my apartment Rebecca lets out an exaggerated and prolonged heaving, like she’s just walked through a sewer or a pit of sulfur, but I understand because in a way, I guess she has.

“Wow, your place is so clean!” She gasps. “You’re not one of those neurotic clean freaks are you?”

I’m a little offended because I’m not neurotic, but I shake it off and go to the fridge. I take out two beers and offer her one.

“What, are you trying to get me drunk?” She asks sarcastically as she takes the beer from me. God, she’s annoying.

“You got me,” I say, playing along. I don’t know why. Slowly but surely I’m crumbling underneath the foot of Womankind.

“You know,” I say as I twist the cap off of my beer. “In a place like this it’s important to stay clean. I’m not neurotic; I just prefer to not live in filth. I’m not neurotic.”

“Whatever,” she replies mid-sip. I hate it when people talk with things up to or in their mouths. It’s obnoxious and rude.

Since she has taken it upon herself to sprawl out on my couch, I sit down in the sub-par armchair near my bed. She looks over at me and laughs.

“Is that your bed?” She chuckles. “Wow, your place is small.”

I want to kick her, but I don’t, so I say, “Well your ass is huge.” Not the best of tactical maneuvers, I’ll admit. But if she looks like a kid, then I should be able to act like one.

Rebecca looks at me sternly. She gets up and approaches me and I feel an aneurysm coming on. I shield my balls from the incoming battering ram onslaught. But then she just sets herself down on my bed and looks like she wants me to sit next to her and engage in a deep conversation, put her head on my shoulder and confide in me about something, which is a terrible idea when I’ve only had one beer. So with me in the chair and her on the bed, we just sit there staring at each other in excruciating silence. A few desperate sighs are all we have to breathe in the thick, awkward smog of two people stuck together who have nothing in common.

Thankfully, when I finally give in and sit next to her she just lies down. My bed is a twin, not enough for two full grown adults, except maybe for the two anorexic stars of a teen TV drama. I said she could stay here; I didn’t say she could use my bed. I sigh and I’m making my way over to the couch when she I hear, “Eric, where are you going?” I point to the couch and she shakes her head and beckons me back over. I turn the kitchen light off and head back over to the bed. If she’s expecting me to lie with her all night and cuddle, well she’s got another thing coming. I’m really just not in the mood for this.

Sure enough, however, she sits back up and puts her hand on my leg, then buries her head underneath my chin. She’s breathing a little heavier than what I imagine is normal, almost like soft crying. Fuck.

“Eric, do you think I’m attractive?” She asks. Cardiac arrest is imminent. That little guy inside of me that usually tells me what to say to women, well he filed for disability.

“Umm...” I begin confidently. “What do you think about yourself? That’s what matters.”

I’m so wise when I’m flabbergasted.

“I’ve never been able to figure it out.” She sobs. “Every time I look in the mirror I don’t know whether to feel confident or disgusted with myself. It’s like I’m twelve all over again.”

I knew it! Shit, I’m going to jail.

“God, that must sound ridiculous,” she continues.

“Not at all,” I say, wiping the sweat from my forehead with the arm that’s not asleep.

“I just never can feel sure of myself, you know?” She says as she picks her head up and looks at me. My eyes are glazed over.

“I understand.” My phrases become reflexive as my brain goes into autopilot.

“Oh, Eric,” And then I’m out.

When I finally slip back into relative consciousness, I realize that her mouth is latched on to mine like a surgical mask, and from the physiological perspective, what occurs next is sex. All it really feels like is I’m lying on my back wearing a one hundred and five-pound jockstrap that moans. I’m tired; more confused than anything else, and frankly I’m just pretty disinterested to the whole situation. But like the trooper that I am, I keep going until all respective participants have deemed the act complete. Soon enough all action seems nonsense and she looks asleep. I’m unconscious, thus making myself oblivious to whatever act of molestation she may decide to perform on me for the rest of the night.

I’m awakened by the smell of smoke, thick and putrid, assailing my left flank. It’s Rebecca, sitting upright, her chest wrapped in my sheets and a cigarette hanging from her bottom lip. Ashes and butts fill up a previously empty beer bottle. The clock says 4:00 AM.

“Morning,” she says, blowing out a thick ring of the curling smog. Disgusting or not, it was impressive.

“No smoking,” I reply as I slime out of bed and stumble over to the bathroom. I shut the door and splash water on my face, paying no regard to the state of the plumbing in this building. When I finish voiding my bladder, I can tell that she still hasn’t put out her cigarette. She’s persistent.

“I hope you know that I expect you to pay for the Laundromat to wash those sheets.”

She blows out another ring and raises her eyebrows. “Why?”

Cute and rude. I’ve really picked out a winner. “Because I hate the smell of smoke, and it lingers on this kind of fabric.”

“Why didn’t you say anything before?” She asks.

“Well for one I was asleep. And I didn’t want to seem neurotic.”

“I thought you said you weren’t neurotic.”

“I’m not.”

“Then why would you be afraid of appearing neurotic?”

“I wasn’t afraid. I was—“

“You should get new sheets, then. Don’t make it my problem,” she says, with just a tiny hint of low-rent sarcasm.

I try my best to shrug it off and climb back into bed. She drops the cigarette into the bottle and lays her head on my chest, trying her best to act like a kitten. Her hair smells like peaches and cancer, but strangely enough, nothing has ever felt this nice against my skin. A few minutes pass and I hear her drift to sleep, moaning softly between rhythmic breaths. It’s like clockwork, and soon enough I join her.

Prosey.

I'm looking for something, and I'm not sure what it is.
I believe in something, and I'm not sure what it is, or if it exists.
I really want someone, but I don't know who she really is, or if she wants me back. And I think I may have lost my chance to tell her how I feel.
So these are my most recent issues. Same old, same old, I guess. I've got to resolve them, but I'm not sure how.
What's a man to do, but wait and see?
Take action, but which one?

Here we go.

So look, I've been thinking about some things recently and I've realized what my problem is when it comes to relationships. Despite my confident, almost narcissistic personality, when it comes to relationships and initiating things I have been completely spineless. I never want to really go all out and find out if she's actually interested in me.

And then, I'm such a 'nice guy' that I worry about making bad impressions and 'moving too fast' even though it is sometimes obvious that making a move is the right thing to do. I don't want to make a move, because I don't want to insinuate or rush anything, but I don't want to not make a move and have her get impatient and lose interest in me.

So I think I should really work on that for the next time I spend time with an interest.

That's it for me.

Here's a story.

My good friend Austin has been pitching me ridiculous ideas and themes, challenging me to write on my feet as it were. The most recent pitch was a short story that needed to flow seamlessly, involving sex, beer, a giant squid, a talking tree, and the inner monologue of Austin's car. I did as I was told, and I must say that I am quite proud with the final product. It is fucked up, but relatively outrageous. Austin enjoyed it thoroughly, and I hope you do as well.

It is called "Drunken Defender: Mamaroute's Demise"

Part One: A Voice from Afar.

"Slow down, you're hurting me," she said, and just as I was laying down some of my best moves.

Not yet drunk enough to start blatantly ignoring her, I complied. As I reduced my thrust to an easier but much less fulfilling pace, I decided to turn away from her slick, sweat-beaded back and gaze out of the cruddy window of the stranger's cruddy apartment. I had a view of the park, if you could call it that. Really it was just a tree with a fence around it and an immense shit-ridden puddle that some idiot in city hall had the audacity to call a pond. I digress. However, tonight, something about the air or the alcohol made that lonely, pathetic tree seem a little more alive. In the gaps between when the train roared past I swore I could hear it breathing. Something made it --

"Oh, fuck. Oh fuck!" Goddammit she interrupted my whole train of thought. Gripping the sheets, she cursed and moan obscenities until I gripped her hips hard and finally relaxed.

She fell limp onto the bed and I immediately wiped myself off and headed towards the window. I heard a faint, deep voice speaking to me through the glass. Not wanting to confuse my beer-addled state with true sense, I tried to ignore it and head to bed. But as the voice crept into my head once again, I threw my clothes on, took one last look at the unconscious stranger that I had just fucked, and headed out of the place I had never been before to possibly have the first real man-to-tree conversation in history.

The air was cold and it made me feel about two inches less of a man, but I braved it and headed into the park. The tree was a giant old oak, with a thick, gnarled coat of bark that was torn in several places as if throughout its history people had been trying to cut it down. I placed my hand upon its cold, wrinkled skin and realized that it was no different from the old coots that I had taken care of back at the Institute.

"Finally someone listened," I heard carried through the wind.

Fuck. It's real.

"I've been calling and calling for over one-hundred-and-fifty years."

Double fuck. It's really real. "Why have you been calling?"

There was silence and for a moment I realized how fucking ridiculous I must have looked.

"There is a danger coming. A creature. I have foreseen it. I have been calling for aid, because this danger can only be remedied by human hands."

Then I realized what made this tree different from the elderly: it actually had something to say. "Well what the fuck do you want me to do about it?" I asked.

The tree stood still, much like trees do, and said, "You. You are the only one who has responded to my call. It is you who was chosen to save the world from the creature."

Realizing that even drunk, I could never think up a farcical scenario like this, I sighed and said, "Alright. Where is this thing and what is it?"

"It is Mamaroute, the giant squid of old. It is approaching the shore of this city as we speak. Use whatever weapons you can find, but you must destroy it. Destroy it before it rapes this world of itself."

"Fuck. I'm gonna have to borrow a car."

Part Two: A Voice from Within.

...So after I was pretty much raped and brutalized by my former pilot, her friend came and told her he needed to borrow me for a while. She was resilient for a while, but he told her that he had to use me for some very important mission, so finally she let him have me. He was tall, fit, and handsome, so I wasn't too hesitant about going with him. I have to say, though, that after the beatings I received when my former pilot was using me, I was up for any change in style. Of course, he turned out to be no more of a gentleman she was, and I ended up getting the beating of a lifetime. He was stronger than she was, so when he pushed it to the metal I could feel it grinding deep inside my frame, my gears twisting and about to blow. She had already destroyed one side of me, and he beat and violated the rest of me like it was his job. And she had nothing to say about it, either. All humans are the same.

Austin and I were on the way to the shore, and we started talking about what it would be like if other things besides trees could talk.

"This for instance, would have a lot to say," I said. "The thing was beat to hell even before I borrowed it"

Not to mention that pounding beer after beer I drove it pedal-to-the-metal until I reached the shore.

"Christ, this car would be pissed off, if it could feel," she said.

...It is almost as if humans have no idea that we can feel things. Pain, sadness, anger, everything that a human can feel. It pisses me off.

By the time we got to the shore the car was sputtering and from ever corner of it I heard something clank. It was just a car, though. It could get fixed.

...By the time I got them to the shore, I was broken and miserable and coughing up black smoke. I was like a cheap whore. Goddamn humans.

Part Three: Enter Mamaroute

Three hours passed and just as I was about to dismiss the tree as a hallucination, I saw the giant squid rushing out of the water and onto the shore. It landed two feet away from the car and let out a tremendous gurgling bellow, like when Alec Baldwin left his daughter that voicemail. I chugged another beer, tore off the car's windshield wipers and approached the squid, ready for anything. The monster lunged forward and suddenly halted, it's gelatinous face three inches away from mine. Gazing into its eyes I saw into the very mind of the great beast, and shouted, "Mamaroute! Your reign of terror ends here!"

...Just then, this huge fucking squid splashed out of the water and practically landed on me. Then that drunk, abusive motherfucker ripes off my wipers. What the crap?

I really had no idea what was going to happen after that, since I really had no idea how I was going to fend off this giant ancient quid with two broken windshield wipers.

...You should have seen that stupid motherfucker. He was hammered, trying to fight off this giant squid with two plastic Valvoline wipers. Psh. Humans...

The great monster then roared a second time as it thrust its giant tentacles around the car car. The tips went inside and fumbled around, as if in search of something, and reappeared with their slimy tips wrapped around Austin. It was then that it turned back towards the sea and started moving.

"Fuck! Get this thing off of me!" Austin screamed.

...I was being raped again, this time by tentacles. Eww...Thankfully they pulled out before I could get into the psychology of the matter. They took my pilot with them. Good riddance.

As the creature approached the sea I lunged after it with the wipers. I jammed one into its back, or at least what looked like its back, and began to climb up the slippery mountain of its body. Gripping with all the strength I could muster, I stabbed the beast in the top of the head with the other wiper. Convulsing and screeching, Mamaroute hurled Austin and I into the wake, and we floated there almost lifeless as he fell to the sand, dying.

I awoke staring into the morning sky, my head in the sand. Austin was next to me, her hand on my chest and her head on my shoulder. I thought to myself, "That's the last time I talk to a fucking tree."

...Those fuckers went flying into the water and I've gotta say, I've never laughed so hard in my entire life. The guy performed quite well, though, considering he was drunk. I guess I couldn't just leave them there.

Thinking.

The girl and I have discussed our feelings and have come to a mutual decision. We're going to keep on seeing each other as read, and put this whole done-to-death "relationship" thing off until we are both sure that it is what we want.

Sound good?
Yeah, I thought so too.

Smitten.

Twas a light kiss on the cheek, and it needn't have gone further.
Twas all that I needed to be sure.
Good things are happening.

I'm ready to take the dive back into feeling something real, something that goes deeper than the purely physical. I'm ready to establish a deep emotional and psychological connection with somebody. If it's not going to be love, it's going to be as close as I can get.
She's quite amazing. Taken by surprise last night by some deep feeling, I found myself performing the actions of a gentleman, something that I've always tried to be but always fell short of. Last night I was overcome by the desire to do the right thing.
Our outing was random, but everything fell into place and felt like it was supposed to happen.

I need to know more about her; who she is, what she wants, everything. This feeling is great. I can't put into words how this feels.

Oldfriends/Weekends/Newfriends/Bookends

Recently, I had a revelation, or at least something that I like to call a revelation even though it probably isn't and sounds nothing like one.

Oldfriends/Weekends - On Saturday Kevin and I packed up some gear and went fishing. First in the Farmington River and then Birch Pond. We caught nothing, save for two small Sunnies, but either way it was one of the best days I've had in a while. That night, Kevin, Tim, and I all cruised up our new recording spot and getaway up on Bantam Lake with a few beers and some instruments. Sunday morning Kevin and I went fishing again, this time in a canoe. We shoved that sucker off shore and paddled around until about 10:30, still not catching much of anything.
But it was so much fun, more fun than I've had in quite a while.
I never liked fishing as an adolescent, even though I would go all of the time with my dad and brothers as a child. For some reason it's so much more fun when you're out on the lake in a canoe with an Old Friend, throwing a few casts out and reeling in nothing.

Newfriends/Bookends - On Thursday I met someone new. Not in the romantic sense, for now at least, but the Platonic. Her name is Jess. We met by chance outside of my building and ended up talking about everything in the broad spectrum of conversation. Book, films, music, love, romance, life, education, experience, all of it. We talked for about four hours and it was probably the best Platonic interpersonal experience I've ever had. Onj the last note, Keri and I are working our way back to being close friends again, which is great. So that's the end of that book that took two years for us to write. Now we're starting a new one, and I can't wait to find out what happens. So maybe the right title would have been Newfriends/Bookends/Bookbeginnings. Too bad Bookbeginnings isn't a fucking word.

So that's my revelation, and go pound sand if you don't like it.

Fall 2008

I registered for classes yesterday.

PSY 202 Principles of Research in Psychology
PSY 205 Social Psychology
PHI 102 Introduction to Logic
PHI 222 Philosophy of Science
ENV 134 Extraterrestrial Environmental Intelligence (lab science)
ENG 106W Introduction to Writing Fiction

I also got into a 300-level course, ENG 315 Critical Theory, but I'm not sure if I'm going to take it just yet.
Fuck it, it's a good list of classes. Whatever happens happens.
I'm planning on taking a shitload of philosophy and literature courses. If that boots me out of the Psychology program, then fuck it. I'll do a contract Philosophy major.

Conflict Resolution 101

Here we are again. I'm sitting in my cramped basement office and I can hear the two over-the-hill maintenence workers having shamelessly rough sex in the boiler room. Janitors fuck like champs, apparently.
I laugh, but somewhere in that laugh there is a sign of some sick desperation that just pleads for someone to get me the fuck out of here.
But there are some things that have been going positive lately. I've finally picked up and moved on from dwelling on Keri. It's amazing that after two years it hasn't seemed to have affected either one of us very much. Maybe that's the friendship thing already working. Our ability to patch things up easily is just carrying over. I'm not going to say that I was glad when the relationship ended, but I'm also not going to say that I was thrown into some sort of existential funk over it. It was two fantastic years with hardly a single fight, so I guess it was bound to end at some point. Couples that hardly ever fight never last. They're always better off as friends.
I guess I've never believed wholeheartedly that there is someone out there for everyone. But I believe that there is someone out there that will come along and have a profound impact on who you are And for me, that was Keri. In the long run, I don't know what's going to happen with her and I. If we don't end up together, then it was neither of our faults. It was just something that had to happen. I don't really believe in fate, but I'm pretty sure that it exists in some form or another.
What I really want is for Keri and I to be happy in whatever way that we can. If that means just being close friends and being with other people, then who am I to fuck with that? If someone else can make her happy, then it's not my place to fuck that up. Nor would I want to.
I know that the last thing I want is to become one of those jealous, possessive ex-boyfriends that try to get all involved in the rebound relationships of their exes. I wasn't jealous or possessive when Keri and I were together and I sure as hell am not about to start with that shit now.
I hope this other guy is a good guy; a nice guy. I hope he's someone that can care for her and make her happy. I hope he's someone that knows, like I did, how lucky he is to have her.

Re: A letter to 06810, by Meg Ford

In order to find someone that even closely resembles a decent human being, one would have to travel miles outside of the wretched, barren womb that is Danbury, CT. I didn't want to believe it at first, but we are, in fact, in Hell, and the people here are already dead.
What I really want to know is, where are all of the interesting, intelligent people that I was told would be here? Where is the eclectic, personal learning environment that I was promised?
The pale gray purgatory of the downtown area alone reeks a hybrid of smog and the viscous, milky residue of a meat-packing plant.
Danbury, your sullen streets and the almost omnipotently toxic makeup of your air has injected me with just enough supercharged nihilism to fill a veritable encyclopedia, although you are not nearly worth the words or the effort involved in doing so.

Where I am and Where I want to Be.

No matter how well I think that I am doing with all of my classes at WestConn, and no matter how much I think that I have here in CT to stick around for, there is always part of me that wants to pack up my shit and move to Bar Harbor, Maine. There is a school up there, College of the Atlantic, that is the perfect school for someone like me. So perfect that I keep their brochure in my apartment on a table, and flip through it from time to time, looking at what I am missing. At COA they offer a Bachelor of Arts in Human Ecology as their sole major. That sounds strange, I know, but I would be able to design my own cirriculum, as long as I take the required ecology and earth science credits. That means that I can build up my own self-designed degree by taking psychology, philosophy, literature, art, and music courses. Their learning environment is an actual environment: an island surrounded by wildlife, natural bodies of water, and natural forests.
Why did I not go there for school, even though I applied? It costs 35,000 a year. And that is money that I just don't have and money that I will not just be able to pay off in student loans and financial aid.
Part of me will always want to go somewhere other than where I am, just pack up and leave everything behind. I know that I will, despite any financial or personal restraints, because it is in my nature to do what is best for me. I don't know what's going to happen to me. I just hope that whatever it is will happen soon. I need to high-tail it the fuck out of Danbury and out of Connecticut.

Needs to be Said.

In my travels I have begun to notice that intelligent human interest in the unknown is deteriorating, and it is very heartbreaking to see people not using their minds for what they are designed to do: analyze, introspect, observe, calculate. The intellectual fiber of humanity is being shredded by those who choose not to do these thing; those who are giving up or losing the contemplative nature of the human mind. We need that connection, that intellectual spark, to function. A non-functioning mind is dead.
I am seeing less and less original and creative thought as I travel along my current town of residence.
The moral fabric of our society is also slowly being shrinkwrapped in generalities and courteous favors. Humans are becoming afraid to be honest with one another. We call this political correctness, but what it is really doing is dumbing down our own nature to be critical of one another. If you do not like someone, do not be afraid to tell that person. Be open and honest and specific. I'm not saying that hate is right. I'm saying that anger and discontentment are healthy and necessary to our intellectual, spiritual, and emotional growth as human beings.

Transcending Hate and Anger

The stories, lyrics, and passages that I write are filled with some negative emotion. The observations found therein are sarcastic, cynical, and in some form, nihilistic. I have recieved feedback from people asking me why I am so full of hatred. The people that see me as hateful fail to understand that hate and anger are two completely different energies. Anger is a raw energy created by frustration. Hatred facilitates anger to enforce an ademant and subjective power on something else. My passages seems angry because I am frustrated with certain things that I write about, like the general human condition as a whole. I do not use my anger to fuel hate, and anyone who believes otherwise is simply not smart enough to step outside themselves and look at things objectively.
The lyrics that I write focus on negative emotions such as anger, for the purpose of self reflection and to teach others the positive benefits of transcending those emotions to become a better human being. I hope that from my words people might be willing to look into their own shadowed side and pull out what they find in that part of them what they think is wrong and be willing to step outside themselves and make some positive changes. If everyone was willing to run a comb through their own lives and yank out the split ends in their own hearts I think that humanity could take a giant leap towards positivity and objectivity.

Another thought.

There's a certain bent pleasure in knowing that so many people take Human experience for granted. They turn it into a wanton motion, that flails all around, leaving a violent trail of slime and hate, and disgust, and fear all across their existence. It's comforting to know what that is, because it gives me the ability to gain awareness and take pains NOT to participate in that sick sideshow of wasted consciousness.The scum that is Human Interaction is coming home to roost...and where will you be when its flacid bulk, bloated with the empty calories of millions upon millions of misused, misrepresented, and misconstrued concepts, comes crashing down onto you with a thunderous 'flop', and a sickly pale sheen.I don't know for sure, but I think it's about time we have contingency plans for that day, because I'll see it ahead of time and get out of the way... but the rest of you... I don't know if your attention span will allow you to look up for just that one fraction of a second that would be necessary to spot the shadow growing above you...and the next thing you know, I'll hear that joyous 'splat', and there will be room to breathe a psychic sigh of relief again. All of that tainted, pathetic, fumbling of expression, and groping at connecting with anything that will allow it...anything besides oneself, naturally. Maybe I'm one of the doomed, slow moving, slugs, or incoherent, unaware fools that will be caught under that loathesome, clammy flab...but if I know me, I doubt it.I know that you're all too cool to be interested in what I say, so just light up another cigarette and wave it off as if it were nothing, which is all that it is anyway, right? I bet you're too cool to have to look up too, huh... well, we'll find out some day I guess. But unlike the majority, I posess both, the fortitude, and the patience to wait and see.I'll just scavenge the scraps of meat that squeeze out from the impact.

The Subjective Priveleges of Being Human

To begin a new eon of life, is to have certain aspects of one's current reality smashed into oblivion, leaving clear ground upon which to build a new foundation of that reality. This includes much, having to do mostly with the self. The image is wiped away with the perceptions that were proven false; that being the inherent flaw in the Ego, it is subjective, but permutates a reality that takes hold on our minds as if it were objective truth; the existence of which is under much suspicion. Can we, having that subjectively oriented reality that is perpetually moving and changing, ever know what the one objective truth is -that which occurs with or without validation from our subjective psyche- in any situation. I don't believe it possible, and I don't expect anything short of Armageddon when we can...anything less would be a bastardization of a finale`. Such an anti-climactic end to our perceptions is to be expected I guess...as it's only a perceived possibility anyway. That definition of Finale`, being different to each person...or at least potentially, different to me.It's enough to drive one to the fringe of lunacy, and send one into fits of horrendous paranoia, and desolation, and apathy. But you always come back round to realize, that no matter what the circumstances of your self pity, and wallowing self doubt, there is the possibility of learning more about the mysteries of ourselves with each day. Is that what inspires you? Maybe not...probably not...but maybe it could if Armageddon was on the horizon. Threatening the comfort of the invisible mortality that we all have; not realizing what it is to stand in cognition of death, the omnipresent, but never real threat of dying just floats behind us always, like that god damned Wendigo, and every time you think you look it in the face, you just end up staring at the empty air, fearing the invisible and mysterious and strange fate that waits for all of us after the extended flail and grope that comprises our lives. There is one time, when you will see the face, and know the mysteries, and feel the complete peaceful fear of your Ego's end...Thus we are brought to the afterlife. Possibly an Ego enforced con on humanity to validate death. The Ego is far too important for only one lifetime, it needs eternal validation and security, therefore once the Ego developed far enough to impose control over our temporal reality, it conceived the notion of an afterlife. Is that so far fetched to consider? Is that so out of the realm of possibilities? I think that the Ego has foisted cons upon our psyche far more subtle and difficult to piece together. This concept of an afterlife is a fairly obvious manipulation, and with a startling lack of attempted obfuscation by the Ego... how contemptuous. That bastard swine is just laughing at us now! Having his way with our reality. Creating those questions that we can not answer, to make us come crawling back to it for support and redemption... Well fuck you Ego! I won't have it. I'll take one of those new-fangled lobotomies doctor, and one for my lover too. Maybe the simplicity of primal order, is the peak of the bell curve. Maybe happiness can be found through ignorance, I don't know. But I'll be damned if I let some self obsessed, messianic wannabe, psycho-analytical concept, fuck me around. Maybe what it all comes down to is, facts are just as subjective a perceptions, and everything comes down to faith. Nothing is true, everything is permitted. The senses are the link to the outside reality, but take them away and what is left?Emotions and concepts, with no words, language, sounds, or images. Even sound, such an important structure in my life, is wanton and useless in an abstract space. We need to make contact with those, through deprivation of the senses at first, then incorporation of the senses to aid in the connection. Seek the middle pillar... not the left or the right as you please.