This is it?

This is it, my truth, the story I can now tell. It is going on as follows. In the beginning, there was nothing and the word was nothing. The light imploded through the barriers of the flesh as the screaming came rushing into the world of movement out of the darkness of inertia. The thoughts swirled in a multi directional tango, each mirroring the being of each non thing which was really the explosion of neurons copulating with one another as they were meant to do by some plan that we can never know. It was a long time before the flesh saw itself and said “this is me” but when it happened it was the defeaning roar of the neurons firing off in response to the self which they could not see and the embodiment they could not deny. I felt the limits and in the limits opened up the endless possibility for pain and suffering.
But there was no pain and suffering, only joy. Parents fed children and children went to school to learn better to understand and cope with the suffering which they themselves did not feel. And sometimes the children were not nice and the children were alone and sad and the sadness grew until the fleshbag came to see that it was not only defined itself but had nothing in common with the others.
The idea of being one came through the eyes, always the eyes staring at the thing. The thing could not understand because it loved all as though they were itself and yet they kept looking and speaking, not letting it be. All it ever wanted was to make them all happy but that in itself is inexcusable.
The point where it all came to shift was the Sarah when she came out of nowhere and the neurons copulated in a way they had not before, not understanding still or then why or how or what. Why can we be the way we were and yet not be able to make it sensically. That is point in the sensical nature of the self. We saw it for what it was. Not in the sense of knowing it but in knowing the not-it. We knew only that the tension was there and that it would last, that it would never be resolved, that the neurons would fight and fuck and fight and fuck and it would be beautiful if not horrifically painful in the realm of one’s entire life being spent softly stroking every inch with cold razorblades dripping with lye. That is beautiful. And so we go on, stroking and stroking the razors, watching the blood ooze slowly out and getting drunk on it, smearing it between one another’s lips and genitals. An orgasm of hot red blood revealing the reality of it that we don’t want to share one another’s lives but really one another’s deaths. That is all we can hope for. The end.
The pain had a purpose now. Instead of masturbatory self mutilation we could inflict it on one another and see a point to it. The end. The end would mean everything and more in the beginning if only it were not alone. And so here I am sitting alone in this moment and space hoping that for god’s sake someone will find the truth I am saying here. Look at the fucking end and see it for how goddamn beautiful it is. When it comes I will scream in agony while all the pain is wrenched away from me, the pain of the her and the he/me. The pain of the us. Those brief moments of release are not the point. They are merely the context. The pleasure is that absence of pain which makes us feel the pain all the more intense. And that is what is so fucking wonderful. Those moments of light wherein the brain lets itself flow outwards through the fingers and hating everything that is going on because it is taking away from the pain. The fucking things that the meatbag stuffs into itself to forget the pain that it is trying to cultivate and all the monkeys screeching and preaching to the fucking goodness of it all.
The pain of the family. The other self, same yet wholly different getting some drunk fucker’s finger up his anus. Some fucker thinking that by causing some poor kid pain he’s going to find truth but the fact is that he needs to feel the pain too or he’s only sucking his soul dry. But now he won’t get it, poor fucking kid. Never gave it back. Never gives it back. Needs to give it back. In one grand blinding supernovae of seething rage spewing acidic semen all over the world which was not good enough to cause pain to. I love the kid and could never get it. Now I never will. Too far, the family, the light, the pain, the love, oh the love was nice because it was so painful. It is so painful and will always be so and I will gorge myself on it every moment for godsake. Never again will I ignore or betray it, to try to hide or shield myself from it. Pain is life. And life is pain. And that is what is so great about it. That is the only way that anything can mean anything. The shared pain so that in the end we can know it meant something for once. This time I’ll get it right. This time it’ll matter. I know it’s been many times. Too much is known.
It happened again and again and every time it happened it got more complex. That’s fucking it, it happens and it happens and it gets better because it sees itself more and more, we see ourselves more and more. The Darwin fool was right but he missed the time part, it wasn’t the way it was but it is the way it is. I’m going to get it right and let the pain flow and not hold on, not push off but really let it be, flow with it, taste and and let it fuck me every step of the way. Forget the meatbag, forget the release, let the pain go. Cause it, feel it, don’t stop it for in stopping it you’re only dooming yourself and the rest to repeat, repeat, repeat. Christ got it. And now I’m a Christian. Wow. But that can’t be it, that’s not the end because it goes on. But I have to go now.
And I’m back and the pain is in the center of the thing. Feeling the rust within the neurons making impotence out of their dendrites. Knowint that things such as this should not be done but unable all the same to resist the allure of the other self which lies brooding under the control of the self. That dangerous experiment of returning to some place and time long ago which one chose to put under lock and key but yet…never left. That is the essence of the problem here, where the self comes out of something which it does not in itself want o admit exists but in the end it cannot deny. The problem which we are now facing in this present situation is how to reconcile the ideas which the right self wants to seek and the left self knws it can do and yet the fundamental inability of the apri to achieve in some kind ofltangible real-world fashion. Then there’s the Sarah questiona gain.
The pain came cropping up again as the Sarah question was revived in the possibility that it might come back next term. Oh god what then. The pain would case for the most part and take on that new dimension which we all know is the ecastsy of the razors edge. The world would make sense again and in that sense the psyche would rage against the rusted concertina wire which holds it in check qwith sense experience. So that thing looks back over not only its physical self but temporal self as well. Why are they all so weak? Why are we all so weak? Why does the self onvince itself athat it is somehow beyond the weakness and can rise above it all? How can that be when the meatbagas are all the same in the end. We all need love. I need love.
That is the present problem, so much want for something to caress my back and tell me its all going to be okay. The centering is good but it hasn’t been done often enough given the psychopharm changes going on in the mind right now. How can I get back? How can I find them? Why is it so blooyd hard for me and the others to find one another an dhsare that which we are naturlally meant ot share? I felt it the other day and it was pure ecstasy. My day was illuminated by my endless proclivity to suffer. In my willingness to feel the pain which is my condition I opened up the equal possibility of feeling both greater pleasure and the ability to surmount the pain. The other one which the professional insight said that the emotions are an environmental gauge which must be listened to,. I should have listened to this when she said it. This is the truth I need to come to better realize in order to reach the places I am trying to get. I didn’t see the relationship at first but not it’s all too clear. The mind feel slitslef uncoiling as the words spew out on the the page in a kaleidoscpaic exposition of the spyche. IN all its pauses, mistakes, meanderings, lack of description or abundance thereof the self rediscovers its inner nature.
The other was okay. That’s what they say but in thek end I know the self that exists in me and the way in which ist has so often deined that which ist was feeling. The proclivity to fith off the explosions on the inside of the skin which are set off fby sparks from the sense s. The sense that one can contain it but in the end onlyi lets it build within onself to no avail. So tired, so bloody tired and yet must write on. Absoltuely must write on at all costs.
Relazx and allow oneself to be walking along a eyellow andy beach flecked with beads of vermilion. Forget the fact that you don’t know what color vermilion really. Is. Then let the sand touch your feet, the sinking feeling as the moisture come s into conflict with the grains. The confusion of whether one is on solid ground or merely some soft putty just waiting to give way and let one sink to the bottom of the earth. The waves slowly slppping in and out of the toes, leaving the soft caress of the cold and salt under the toenails. The female figure foff in the distance. Calling you with the angels of her physiology and yet you rmind not letting itself feel the longing out of fear of consequences. And there is the problem. In that image you see all your stupidity. Faced with even an ideal moment which you wyourself construct in mind you still cannot overcome it. Even when you define your own environment you are faced with thed tendencies to fear it. And scene.
Letting the words flow without thought is the key to allowing yourself to see the inside fo the mind. No, not an artist but a mad monkey with a playithing that lets it feel its own mind exntending itself out in to the world. Let it do so. It feared the fconsequences before but now you are ferree. TLet yourself ffly out into th world. Feel, it be part of it. I know it I makes your gag and cuss and cray and scream and it trouble s your sleep and will give you snightkmares because ther are bad things lurking int eh corners of reality . But the those bad things are in your mind. The word around iyou is no more than your physicalr elation. You are a physical being now. You Gave up on the endlsess interlnalizing. Let you rsel fbe that. Be it. lLet the the physical emotional self ocme out.
Calling the Calre and telling it how wonderful it is is great. I need to do that. That is the essence of who I am. I shout out to the world the love I feel for all the baeauty y I feel. In it Not to try to grab a hold of it and pluck it from the tree like some fruit that whill ineivtaibly spoil or else become feces. Rather to sing its praises while admiring i. To reflect it in my own eyes in the way that it would want. To.

Once upon a tim ether ewas a little boy and he was all alone in the world. He hid inside his shell of muscles and sinew, staring viciously out from under the armour lest anyone or anything thingk they could eviscerate ehis insides. The evisceration is what hew afeared. The thought of one’s intenstines laid out on a cold steel talbe because packed out by the sweing maching. Its okay little boy. You have to live int eh wrodl so you might as well learn to respond to it. You cannot reflect the beauty if you don’t allow yourself to feel the pain. The beauty is that point of intersection between the pleasure and the pain, the lines of contour on the topography of desire and experience. To know what it is to be human you mmust lalow the mountains to pitch you down their faces, bones breaking and body tearing, the self immolated in the fires below. Only to piece onself together and climb the mountain oncea gain. For otherwise you must lose yourself fin eldless subjecitivyt, forever afraid of stepping outside the armaour an dfeeling the world again. The tneder heart must be cultivated in order too really reach that which syou are seeking. The Shambhala man was anot eentirley wrong. The tenderness. Let yourself fbe tender. Relax. Lose the frantic attack on the keys. Rather, let the words flow out in a harmony. Eache word setting up the next, a slowly mounting crescendo which may not be the beauty I itself but in the rhythm you establish.
The two fo them, the tall man with the long hari with his child and his wife with the long red hiar. They are happy. they know the truth of their lives. They are not without pain, they are not without trouble but the child and themselves makes it all okay. Everything will work out beause of that child. Clumsily stepping along the road, not quite sure of itself as of yet, mittens hanging from the sides of her arms. Cultivate tenderness and all will be well.
It is time for the two to come together. The end of division. The selves must be friends. And it is in this common activity of symbols an dieas that we will find our harmony once again. It has been to long since we two have spoken with such a unified voice and it is about time. I love you. I love you. Love each other and there is nothing we cannot accomplish.
Disgust with the human race is so easily cultivated when one expects or tries to obtain some kind of result from the people around one. I try to make it social like friendly cultivate relationships amongst people and yet they are not here and go away. Why are they hating so? I know it is not intentional malice but I sit here alone sad, wanting to cry but feeling numb inside as always. I need help but I have no idea hwere to turn. To God perhaps. That is what I must do is turn my mind upewards or outwards or inwards to whatever. I have lost my subjective authority and so have to sit and cry all alone hopeing that somewhere in the world my salvation will come out. I’ma lone all alone and I feel so sorry for myself. There is nothing to be done. NO hope. No salvation. Just me alone in a room filled with my own mind. Lost in the sea of time without a clue as to how I got here. Or whether I want to be here. I cray and cry and the tears flow onwards. The same tears I have cried my whole life. Hoping to god that something that cannot come will come. But there is no coming. There is only this and so how to I come to understand it. I do not. I sit hit praying to you my thing which I cannot know or see or understand to help me in whatever way it is. I commit myself wholly to your trust. You are my master. I your servant. Give you servant his instructions.