Glass Birds, Guns, and the ability to think entirely in abstract metaphors.

The shaman seeds. We are children playing with guns now. We can not even pretend to understand what we are doing. I just hope I've not pulled the trigger.

Intense, soul-baring, cosmos-communing agony/ecstasy and the most beautiful experience. Imagine knowing everything. Losing the ties which bind your soul and experiencing the entire universe. The human brain is possibly not built to process such input. Or possibly the brain is so much better than we thought, and can generate such things if given the proper stimuli. Imagine experiencing the death and decay of your body and knowing that this will come to pass, accepting this as inevitable as you swallow back the blood and feel your bones crumble. This is not frightening. Imagine being able to see everything between people. The intricate connections between each one of us and the universe. The thousand complex layers of motivation, ego, instinct, desire which drive us.

Know that inside everyone is a kernel of infinity.

What would happen if we dared to let it free?

We live now in fear. Our true selves are glass birds. They are so fragile, we keep them in cages inside fortresses of ego. We think that if they touch the world outside they will shatter.

Try it. Unlock the door and the glass bird will be feathers and warm beating heart and fly out into the world. It is eternal and ever changing.

You do not need to fight anymore.

We just went to the health centre to pick up some weed. On the way back we waved to a policeman.

Irony and Alienation

When people feel alienated from mainstream society, they tend to join subcultures. But now the subcultures have become so exclusive, with so many rules and ideals, that they are hilarious.

I have no natural home. I flutter around between the punks, goths, 'alternatives', 'normals', ravers, stoners, unique human beings. Each group is ironically the same. I laugh at them all, I can identify with them all, and therefore I belong nowhere. I'm a culture-whore, running from the Chemical Brothers to Jefferson Airplane to Rammstein to TaTu to the Velvet Underground. Lately I have mostly been listening to goth, EBM and electro. Nine Inch Nails being the only example that you will have heard of. I haven't even heard of the rest. Alva Novalis? Huh? But they're good. I found them in a 'Gothic Compliation' I downloaded. I love random musical discoveries.

Sometimes I just wish I belonged somewhere. It must be nice to be able to think of yourself as part of a defined group. Then you know what you're doing, what might be fun, where you belong. Animals survive by specialisation, so maybe being a generalist is a bad strategy. Creatures like rats are generalists, and everybody hates them despite their evolutionary success. General handymen are paid less than specialist artisans.

Being a 'generally everything' is not getting me anywhere. My life is utterly lacking in focus. My music collection is bizarre, my education piecemeal, and my wardrobe an utter mess. I feel like I'm not expressing myself anymore, not bothering to discriminate between 'me' and 'not for me, thanks'.

I'm too cowardly, or too lazy, to bother being me anymore. I've fucking dissipated. Fail, again.

Equal and Opposite Reaction

Every time of happiness is followed by a time of miserable payback.

This is really fucking annoying. I want to curl up in a corner and cry. Instead I have an essay to write, but every period of intelliegence is also followed by a period of dull stupidity, and my brain has lost its processing abilities.

So yes, I'm miserable, bored, and tired of this. I'm going to do really badly on this assignment, which is 20% of my course, and basically I fail. It doesn't help that I was woken up this morning by my dad turning on my bedroom light and shouting at me. I don't know why anybodyt think that its acceptable to do that to somebody. Manners?

Stupid fail. The worst thing is that I can see I'm being irrationally morose. I just have no idea how to stop being like this apart from waiting it out. This sucks so much. Not even the prospect of free cocaine is cheering me up. Those who know me will understand, that's a very bad sign.

I can't even make a decent blog post, let alone converstion, and as for a 1200 word essay on tradition and dissent, well, fuck off . Fucking stupid world, stupid bitch, fail. I feel so horrible that I should stay away from everbody, but that is not the sensible thing to do. I feel so aimless and pointless and worthless. Why now? I was doing everything right.

Camera Wish

Last night I was thinking how nice it would be to own a camera. Today I walked past the Oxfam shop to see their window display filled with old cameras. Proper style ones, which take film and have big chunky lenses and flash attachments and all sorts of arcane and fascinating equipment.
I could take photographs of all of the things I stare at. I could make whole insufferable albums of blurry abandoned buildings and half-obscured faces, empty shots of little interest to make people feel vaguely sad.

I wonder if I'd be any good at it. Probably end up throwing the camera at a wall after about 3 failed shots. Everything worth doing is so freaking difficult.

I've lapsed into worn-out melancholy, and it's not even midnight yet. Fucking idiot.

Thought Pattern

Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Chocolate. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Violence. Essay? Failure. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Bondage. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Kinky sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. (stupid brain) Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Damn. This is incredibly impractical. But hey, sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Fucking. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Fornication. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. (going to Hell) Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex.

Proper ladies do not think about sex quite this much.

But... sex?

Dread...

I am waiting for karma to kick my ass. Or drop a grand piano on my head. Maybe clawed hands will reach up through the floor and drag me down to Hell. Now that would be a real adventure.