The Instant Love; a formula

The liquid dripped, it dripped in an instant

falling from the inside of my crevice

to the leg which sustains me.

It’s almost funny to think

that every experience

that is had

is only perceived to be real

by the sensory organs in the body

and so eventually it all fades.

I keep wondering often

about the illusion of feelings

and whether I will ever

fall so deeply that I won’t rise alone.

Instead leaping up to move

from point a to point d

the point of not being a singular

but of trusting enough to be a second

and yet a first.

humanity has redirected the desire

for stimulation and pleasure

and instead made themselves vaguely aware

of the death instinct,

living moments as though the immediate does not matter.

I looked at the dripping liquid,

it dried on my leg instantaneously

That’s the magic of the male orgasm,

it flows out, hits something and then is over

in many ways the same way as being with someone who

can’t be forever.

They appear, hit you, make you feel

and then leave as though

you could simply wipe off feelings.

Rambling Mid 20s

What is natural? is it perhaps the slithering of him inside? or is natural more… should natural be the easiness at which conversations occur/ or is it the way in which you don’t have to wonder about messing up/ being around too much.

 

I am a queen.

A queeen

of various boring proportions.

I am to be

admired but not patronized

my body held not scrutinized.

A long time ago a man told me that my body disgusted. I no longer react well to scrutiny. I would rather drown in many ways before allowing somebody to see me. I like better to be felt. what is the visual but the non-permanent anyway?

Don’t speak to much.

Don’t weight too much.

Don’t exist.

Don’t open your heart.

Don’t breathe.

 

Did you ever notice how behavior

is never free but is always under judgement.

What did school teach.

it taught to be okay with scrutiny.

It like the media, the boys, the adults

and how they limited us into behaviors.

humanity is but an organization of otherwise passionate behavior.

So we don’t feel. we act as though an action is to be calculated, judged by its counterpart response.

Don’t stop smiling.

Don’t cry.

Don’t crumble by the anxiety.

The voice

don’t look at anyone.

Mind. chill.

 

 

 

Observations in my travels: Medellin Colombia

For what cannot be bought, there is feeling

at times the feeling of leaving the body

to touch the vulnerable fragment of iridescence

At times the feeling of incompetent

frustration,

a longing for the person

who will leave the body and meet the soul

in a dance of joy in suffering.

The soul rips apart and the body screams

the face reacts by red patches of uglyness

as the vesicles release fluid in the form

of floating perspiration.

I touched the urine on her skin

but only the coins felt her longing.

I cannot recall the face but I remember

the need , a need for the coin,

the gesture of the cross.

The priest, he said

that we are pilgrims, bodies made of dust,

the journey is centered towards…

the beans, the sustenance of flatulence.

the error grave, as I gazed at the artform and forgot to see

the hidden people that color the environment

with the reality of the result of self gain and free market,

I gave a coin, the priest a nice word, but the grass gave nothing,

it could not give beans,

the beans belonged to a market of some form,

which turned every touch into a debt,

the grave , a cost,

the birth, a cost,

the diploma, a cost,

the lips releasing a heavy smell

the rotting of the wood,

the explosion of the candle

which refuses to light without whim.

the lord will only listen by the donation,

a donation to light the candle,

a small remnant, a reminder of the debt

that christ left.

debt is but submission towards a power,

she released rain, sitting on the side of the street

drinking Coca Cola

a woman of no means, with the coin,

the power of the cross

which portrays the debt of one person towards another,

a debt which immediately fades, once the coin is released,

the kiss of life forgotten, the dance a facade,

no home for he who only has a coin.

 

 

Violence and Ideology

I learned a good amount in the last five years. I say a good amount because every class was divided into fulfilling some pedagogical purpose. It’s been a month now since I finished but the world continues to revolve around in its orbit. Looking back at the fragments of information that my brain collected, I see mainly the beginnings of my hypothesis about ideology. Ideology is not singular but plural, competing for the attention of many, while seeming invisible, almost non-functioning. When I think of ideology I first of all think of Erich Fromm’s theory of the human necessity for belonging. In Escape from Freedom, he outlined that food and shelter are mere necessities of survival and that in order for man to survive he must have some sense of belonging. Such belonging is not just a call for love or friendship but is often actualized through ideology. Ideology as a word is but a vague explanation of a worldview that gives the person a framework through which they see, participate, and understand interactions and events. It is at this point that I must pause to think back on Marx’s theory regarding human consciousness. Material conditions determine man’s consciousness. And I struggle now to recall the name of the theorist that spoke about how the material is formed not from an isolated economic base, but from an economic base that is determined through government policy. I lied and I do recall the name of the person who made this phenomenon possible. His name was Pollock and he named such a phenomenon state capitalism. And so Marx’s theory about the inevitable crisis of capitalism and lack of growth of capital is undermined. In its place Lenin spoke about the appeasement of the working class through the governmental policy of imperialism. i pause to realize that I know nothing but that oppression is built into the system of capitalism. Such oppression was of course pointed out by Marx, who decried religion but also decried such conditions of oppression. And so the Communists forgot to decry oppression when they decried religion, instead twisting the theory to state that all bourgeois ideology is the only oppressive ideology, making the way for a theory that became what it opposed. What is oppression anyway but violence? Violence pervades the 21st Century. The chaos is so great that often people point to the weapon as the agent of violence and forget that violence has long now been a chain. I in no way seek to undervalue the terror that occurred in Florida. I imagine the fear that entered the people’s hearts, knocking until they stopped and collapsed. Is it awful that I think of the pain in the shooter, who grabbed a weapon perhaps envious of the freedom that homosexuals can exert; While he a Muslim is ridiculed and unacknowledged as a human being, made instead to be in connection to what only began as a chain of violence, Isis. All ideology is two-sided spouting love in some way and hate in another. That man was told to love his God, and he was taught to love through hate of those who dishonored his God. How is that different from nationalism, capitalism, democracy, communism, racism, sexism, and any system that makes a sectarian worldview? The problem of the 21st century is sectarianism. Man now free to choose a worldview, free from the sacred hell of the past, is allowed to choose. The lack of unity, something that was once a Utopian fantasy, of being free without chains, has allowed for the growing division and a decrease of recognition to those who are most vulnerable to enter the chain of violence that has long existed. The person that most taught me perspective was William Faulkner, who never made the plot unilateral, but also showed all the contradictions in understanding one event. At some point in his most brutal novel, Sanctuary, the narrator, a lawyer, Horace Benbow, notes the fatalism of justice and says: Perhaps it is upon the instant that we realize, admit, that there is a logical pattern to evil, that we die, he thought, thinking of the expression he had once seen in the eyes of the deal child, and of other dead: the cooling indignation, the shocked despair fading, leaving two empty globes in which the motionless world lurked profoundly in miniature (221). Right before such quote Benbow realizes the connection between violence and ideology, which can never be understood in one action but that must be understood as a ripple, with the judge only seeing the immediate action that had resulted in some violation to be payed by the perpetrator: a debt as Nietzche said. The perpetrator was not to be isolated but part of some circumstance that had resulted in the event to be judged. And it is right here that I must return to ideology, because ideology allows people to judge one single event in one certain way. People never quite think about the complexity, the wounds, nor the death that cannot be seen. And so we create more ripples, add more fire, allow for more violence, because the hurt underneath such violence is never addressed but instead made into a fire. It has only been one day and already the connection between one man and his ideology of hate has been pointed out, of course only creating more hatred and more violence. The point is not to blame the weapon, but to examine the conditions that keep adding fire to the hatred. Ideology against ideology and money as the only commodity to give recognition to any ideology. A few moments…of silence

 

 

For those who die in this pattern, fed by the only ideology which is present in all ideologies: hatred and lack of love.

Lithium

Reason. Why are you here. I have thoughts of hurting myself. silence as notes are taken. Am I a person. or am I a behavior.

The behavior kept worsening. I went from irritable to depressive. The lithium dose kept increasing. My brain couldn’t take it anymore and I would constantly break down. Lithium for me was a brief picture of hell. I could not think, I could only feel my agony. I was only on lithium. I took it every day despite my migraines and lack of clarity. I now regret following orders that were only killing me. I looked at an old poem of mine and noticed that within its borders were the descriptions of my mind. “Death of swing, euthanasia of indulgence, the abortion of the self…” I was slowly sedating my mind into inaction and inability. I wonder whether my diagnosis may have been incorrect. Why did I react so negatively to a drug that saves others? Perhaps I have to remember that the first pages on google search are chosen as the first and that perhaps there are more cases like my own. I was going insane. Irritable by the smallest noise, unable to sleep, registering the farthest voice. I was not this way before the lithium. Why did lithium destabilize me further? I felt no pleasure and was sure everyone hated me. I dragged myself to the hospital unable to understand how to keep myself standing. They only gave me the lithium that was guarding my sanity from returning. I was safe. I wasn’t going after anyone but I was suffering. The medical profession does not care about suffering or inability to think. They care only about whether you are a danger to yourself or others. In some respect they throw you into the situation of wanting nothing but to hurt yourself. Until then you are a success, only after you want to rip your skin apart do they mark you as urgent. I am right now off of all meds. I am thinking clearly, eating, sleeping, and daydreaming again. I am starting to think that perhaps meds are not my answer. Instead I have to find new ways to cope with my irregular emotions. I’m not sure about anything right now. But at least I managed to stay alive.

The hospital and depletion

I can’t cry. I had too many breakdowns and now I feel defeated. I just got out of the hospital a few hours ago. I checked myself in, not able to cope with the concept of living anymore. I keep complaining about this feeling but my psychiatrist won’t give me anything but lithium. I find it hard to think and concentrate. I used to have racing thoughts and each paper that I wrote would take half or a third of the time. I can’t handle being like this. Everyone is seeing my destruction. I sat in the emergency room for a long time. Since behaviorally I am quite normal every person that made sure I didn’t harm myself was made to like me. The enchainment of being non-external. I was released after a day. I walked out to the sun, people, and a discomfort in my head. I don’t fit anywhere. I got into a full elevator. I wanted nothing but to run. I haven’t slept for 48 hours. I’m tired but I keep myself up to feel like the failure that I see. I write words that sound empty. I don’t want to be depressed and have energy. I wish someone could help but I don’t know whether any part of my diagnosis is true. I sat with so many wonderful yet helpless people. I wanted nothing but to hug them. I could barely go to the bathroom by myself. I can’t take my half depleted half apparently normal state. I haven’t done any work. I had to reach out to the dean to help me get extensions. I’m a failure. I became useless and I am nothing but a waste of education. Even writing this post is painful. I can’t be a person anymore.

Worthless

I called out of work today and my boss asked me if I’m sick. How can I explain in two sentences that I am not physically sick but in mental agony? I tried only to sound empty. I’m unstable, and my lack of sleep is not helping my hopelessness and anxiety. There is a way in which words fail when one tries to explain that the mind is not working efficiently. I used to take pride in my ability to think, and in my ability to create words that moved beyond mundane statements. Basically my pride was built on the efficiency of my hypomanic state. I feel like I have no worth anymore. I can’t even sleep correctly. I am trying to change apartments because my roommates’ lifestyles clash with my need for sleep. There is a dialectic to what I want and what I actually do. I want to know more, to read everything but instead I stare at words that are blank with meaning. Why should I care about Kant’s categorical imperative? I never thought that I would end up being bipolar. Words can’t describe the experience fully. If you have one minute to speak you end up feeling defeated, pathetic, and disconnected. Everyone assumes that you should be able to act within the normative. Sometimes I wonder what’s the point to my education if my mind refuses to listen or care. I don’t belong in the capitalist economy. I want a realm of freedom in which productivity does not measure my worth.

The Fall

My life is becoming unbearable: to some extent a heavy lightness that suffocates me. By becoming I mean that everything is not as it should be. I am at this point 40 lbs overweight with no hope or energy to lose any of it. My lithium medication was increased today: a reminder that my brain is sick. While at the pharmacy I took a blood pressure test to find out that I am at risk, meaning that I am above the normal blood pressure. I feel like my body is deteriorating and I’m scared. Nothing works anymore. I wrote this essay and the professor kept denying my style, asking instead for curt statements. I just used the one word that I remember from all the GRE questions I have done. This post is pretty mundane but the life of someone attempting to reach stability despite a mental illness is not glamorous. I miss being irrational. I miss being in a higher energy state. Hypomania was always a blessing and yet at the end awaited the fall. I want to fall forever. I often wish that I didn’t exist. I sit sometimes and forget that I am a being and instead lose my awareness, focusing on my racing thoughts instead. I have no one to talk to and it hurts to pretend to be okay. I’m a piece of shit and I don’t deserve to be alive. If I didn’t have college loans I feel like I would end my life. I suppose part of debt is the loss of one’s right to one’s life. The I is a pretty selfish pronoun. I sometimes use we but then I realize that there is no one here except me. I’m sick. I’m sick. I’m sick. But no one can see it. The lard that is the majority of my body just walks around, out of breath sucking on chemicals, wanting nothing but respite. Instead I often find conflict. I can’t even keep one thought for more than a few minutes. This is why my essay was terrible. I can’t focus on one idea. I want to scream to deny my existence to punish my body for being defective. Instead I live half-ly: both alive and dead. I just want to die physically so that my external is equal to my interior. I feel like I am a rotten version of who I could have been. I am already at the fall. I live every day standing over the last cliff. I keep hoping that something will pull me back but instead I am looking above and I see darkness engulf me. I am sick. I wish someone would hear me.

The Dilapidated Swingset

Below the frame stands bare

A metal, freezing to the touch,

Reddening as the water breaks its surface.

A stripped form

as it stands in solitude;

its current state

invites no visitors to come and play.

It stands weighed down by previous hands, by its function,

and only that saves the remains.

All the folly that had wrecked

the vitality of its movement

had once been the spirit in the form

of blasphemous dreams.

“I had a dream of a sentiment

that I cannot recollect”,

Some call it

death of swing

euthanasia of indulgence

the abortion of the self.

Here lies the spinning

Necrosis in the form of follicles

A smoke in the air

to remind the lungs to hold their breath.

A trail of toxins which rupture the surface

and demolish the strings

leaving the scheme immaculate.

 

Alone

I am not physically alone, but in my mind every person exists away from my capacity to perceive their presence. They are shadows in a world of enclosed anxiety. How do I rid my brain of the racing, of the disappointment, of this feeling that only leaves me feeling alone? Claire de lune plays in the background, bringing me back to the day of my youth. That day I sat under a tree and felt separate from my whole life. I was trapped in agony. I am not just alone but I am trapped in agony. Being alone is one thing but the fear of being alone even when people surround me is agony. Agony that I may never feel better again but that instead I am destined to be alone. People keep telling me to find someone, to go out and meet people. But I don’t have the capacity nor the drive. I sit not in bliss but in fear. Fear. Fear. Fear. My heart feels a hollow hole, that brings the air of my lungs to a standstill. My brain understands that I want to scream or cry, but instead I sit. I sit and write about the banality of my existence. About a fear that should not be fear. I sometimes think about every action that I can commit. My mom says that I have a freedom she never conceived. But she doesn’t know what its like to live in fear: a fear that eats away at potential and freedom. I always move. I move so that I may never have to face my fear. But when it slows to a standstill, I have to struggle to catch my breath. I can’t breathe. The slogan of those who encounter police brutality applies so banally to my existence. I can’t breathe because my brain won’t stop racing. It keeps telling me that I am a failure, that I am not worth it, that I am not pretty. Pretty as though beauty matters to not being alone. Perhaps I am seeking a tangible reason for the loneliness that entraps me. I am alone. Some days I feel okay. Some days I feel the scattering of my sanity. Something touches me and threatens my stability. Can we even call my stability sanity or can we call it a coping mechanism that only fails to generate permanent change. I left so many people in the past. I am alone and yet I am not so alone. Writing helps to bring my racing thoughts to a standstill and I suddenly feel okay. I am writing to understand my brain.