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Si esto iba a ser sobrevivido por mí, sería el despertar con todos los colores que yo necesitaba. Pero mi espíritu se retalia contra la violencia de cualquier tipo, por eso está dispuesto, mientras mi cuerpo y mi mente son sucumbidos. No hay nada que me pueda hacer más daño que las drogas. Qué absurdo engaño paranoico, que me hace ver un hermoso regalo, que me hace temer un futuro doloroso. Oh, pero la libertad.

October 27th, 2016


Woah. It’s not 2017 yet? What the hell? Could’ve sworn it was 2017. Oh well, here comes outwards from me some of my thinking stuff. I’m thinking really well right now. Take a guess why… a clue: I didn’t sleep last night… yeah, you know what it is. Anyways…

So, in order for me to cast out “demons” from my own self-observing self, I’ll have to do more than just tell myself that my personality defects and problems are 100% me and my own problem with no outside contributors or influence. That actually isn’t fully true. I’ve discerned that my environment hugely creates me. But I can’t go about as if it comes to head from some devils temptation or exposure. (Are you seeing the psychology of blame and accountability placements yet?) Oh my, if I do not blame the devil, who then is left to blame? Someone has to be wrong, but if it’s actually about me being wrong, can I survive while knowing that, think of myself highly again? What this self-exorcism will require is me telling myself, the demon, or whatever else there may be the same things Jesus communicated to me as fully alone and alive, which were customized, made by God, to be absorbed by my unique only one singular heart and to move over to fulfill a particular conclusion or fresh beginning in good solitude.

Ultimately, my head will certainly rise up from my asshole regardless of anything I do or don’t do. From my previous experience, inaction does produce some fruits of change when life operates on it’s own terms. Inaction is recommended, because I’ll only change when I assert the permanence of character facets in the light of never changing. Another method is asserting to myself that I am exactly who I think I should be.

I have never at any time powerlessly moved through any part of life or its company. Not even of the all. The so-called “disease” which speaks in my own voice to me alone has sabotaged my attempts at abstinence by making me sense or see some powerlessness of my own that is not actually there, like seeing the silhouettes from imagings in the dark. The brain must fill in the blanks. That can become real to me by giving mystical things such as visions or hallucinations some power or dominance over the true reality of waking life.

I grow into thinking and accepting there is something abnormal with me by being told there is. This dark covers truth and tries to manipulate my and other’s conclusions in reason. I allow it to grow by flirting with it and around it and supplying it provisions. I do that because I am bored and lonely, despite all acquaintances, friends or loved ones around me. It will always be me, the only one inside myself, who has been once before or is now completely whole (not sure which) but no one can know what my particular variety of wholeness is like to me.
I am neither powerlessly nor in vain going against any nature within me that I am simultaneously supposed to take accountability for, to arrest or abstain from, since to begin with, the theory was over my powerlessness. From whence then does the power come, if I am kept successfully within abstinence? There is a contradiction being told then, as one of the many I’ve easily misunderstood for truth given to me by authoritative and effective programs of self help, from ones in religion or any other teachings of “spiritual solutions” (the secret, personal intentions) all with a similar theme: Surrender. Surrender your whole life, give up control, and eventually (in the extra fine print) lose or sacrifice everything due to this type of nihilism explained away as enlightenment. It’s better to feel the tide in human emotions and conditions than it is to ignore those things in trying to focus on nirvana or something about emptiness or oneness. The condition of humanity is not made for equality with God so the foolish can only try. There is nothing wrong with any of those programs, religions or followers, because remember; the problem is in me, or the problem is me. Or is it now? Because if I keep being accountable where others simply refuse to take the rightful blame, it might not necessarily make me unhappy, but someone is going to get irritated, whoever that might be. Maybe the disease that speaks in my own voice in my own head will finally snap and become myself.

I’m happy being unhappy. I’m happy enjoying my problems that proclaim I am living and also enjoy finding the solutions. These contradictions that are given as spiritual teaching, when I fully believed them, are sent to break me apart so that some other soul or spirit can build me up again and sift through my whole existence like sand, and whoever is looking, I want the answer to: “what is it you’re looking for within so many tiny little pieces?”

But where did my “disease” ever find such a part of me as this to freely sift? At the bottom of the sand platter, what version of me sits waiting? “Unholy”, or truly “Sempiternal?” There must be better things for my “disease” to do. I could just break my own self apart, and rebuild my own self once again instead of letting someone or something do it for me, which fully violates science or discoveries raised by facts in the start of it all, because I’ve been doing it all along, and I am the disease itself.
(Forsaking the truth(s) or fact(s), or methods that reveal them becomes cumbersome. It doesn’t put an end to what is actually there, and things will continue getting found and learned regardless. What we have experienced as great miracles becomes understood by knowing and then its light goes out.)
The parts of me that are broken glass were hardly painful and difficult to look at when compared to these pieces that dissolved ever more to sand that also erodes and may never be counted from the sheer number and elusively tiny, ungraspable size. Glass shards could’ve been counted, although what does the number stand for anyways? If there were just one grain of sand by itself you would barely see it, and you may not know it’s there. Gathered with the other grains, it forms the whole platter of sand and it is rendered identifiable. It seems without identity in the group or whole that is not itself in taking up the name of “sand” when we’re talking about countless grains together. Could a grain of sand remain totally detached and stand by itself, or will it get totally removed without its mass of similar grains and succumbed by a huge, grinding world? A grain of sand alone will surely dissolve. Thus it is so with me, whatever this metaphor thingy means.
And how would my “disease” ever imbibe a part of me as this to freely sift until fully scrutinized, and then when having finished sorting, starting over and over again, until I become many measures higher than my original density by taking off layers of me as if peeling a head of lettuce or an onion (which is synonymous with death itself), and becoming intensely aware of, in truth, not actually existing at all? Maybe I need to give not only just myself, but also my “disease” a job, but now I think I am the disease of myself in active duty, totally unaware. And I’m strangely comfortable with that.

Oh, yeah, I’m talking about my mind. It’s in my head, which is (should be) totally expected and okay, so thanks for reading.