Tag: sanity

  • A brain dump

    A brain dump

    My inclination to write within the context of a universal experience feels insincere and superficial at times. To want to write at all feels like a self indulgent rant or feathering of my own cap. I’ve abandoned more manuscripts and drafts of old manuscripts these past few weeks than I have all my life.

    The need to recede grows stronger still. My flowery language weighs down in my efforts to express myself lightly. A fresh perspective is elusive in the midst of an old scene. Every effort results only in a new sense of the same old, but no new insights into old demons.

    To be is not as simple as it seems. It demands so much within and without that it commands being, long before it allows me to just be. The shards of madness accumulate as I contemplate the value of it all. Seeing beyond the facade is a painful truth that most would rather disguise. It’s that internalised scene of old demons that prevent new perspectives from shaping. It is the same vantage point that denies affection from those who see our demons as trophies of our humanness.

    The opinions of others have no bearing when we’re convinced that they don’t see what we see. But, even this assumes that our vision is perfect, and our perspectives perfectly informed. Therefore, it must be shame that shades our eyes from the brightness of beauty when the darkness is the only familiarity that we know. Especially when those opinions offer hope when we hope to hold on to the darkness instead.

    The need to expel the clutter from my head is increasing in frequency. Sometimes it’s a healthy release. Sometimes, it creates a shape and form for that which I would rather not have visible. But escapism has never served me well, so brain dumps serve to recalibrate my focus when focus itself appears to be elusive. It’s the counter-intuitive act of being dishevelled in my thoughts in the hope of finding a groomed sanity.

    The four seasons experienced this morning, coupled with tonight’s full moon, resonate with the fluidity of my existence today. Perhaps the tides will bring with it some newfound signs of peace, or serenity. I’m beginning to find a distinct difference between the two.

    One thought that won’t leave me is based on something I wrote in the darkness of late. In contemplating the nature of pain, I stumbled upon the realisation that pain is nothing. It’s nothing where we once had something. It’s the absence of a joy we once had, but has since departed. It, in itself, is not a thing. It is only present in the absence of that which offers us peace…if not serenity. It’s not possible to make sense of nothing. Hence the pain of having nothing after once having had so much.

    Such ramblings continue to tumble out of my mindlessness as I reevaluate everything I once evaluated to be true. There is much that others take for granted but of which I have yet to taste. Giving up on what I need or want has been a constant in my life. But giving up on duty is a luxury that I don’t have. Fixating on what was given up versus what cannot be abandoned has never led to any enlightened spaces. Only self-pity or a toxic sense of entitlement.

    To feel entitled isn’t as vapid as it may appear. Beneath such entitlement still roams the misguided notion that there is a self-worth that must be honoured by others. Whether true or not, social contracts of the like are only as valid as the willing subscription of those party to it. Such subscription has grown to define the value of many, both in its presence by building pedestals for the meek, and in its absence by destroying pedestals of the bold.

    Sanity roams freely in a neighbouring state.

  • Saving my insanity

    Saving my insanity

    Sometimes I write to share my insanity, but sometimes I write to save it.

    When everything about the world feels unnatural, sanity offers no relief.

    Besides, like Vonnegut said, “A sane person, when compared to an insane society, will appear insane.”

    I have often considered myself that lone voice of sanity, and in that assumption, I found myself to be insane.

    Fulfilment lies in finding one who will embrace such insanity with me.

    Despite the search being over, the insanity remains unfulfilled.

  • A Brain Dump

    A Brain Dump

    Mental clutter creeps in at times when I find myself focused on serving others but neglect my own nourishment in the process. My own nourishment, however, escapes me when I find myself lacking in my efforts to achieve the very ambitious goals that I set for myself. Incremental growth has rarely appealed to me. This has been at the core of my contention with the world.

    But contemplating such contention is what leads to the mental clutter. My concern with how I am perceived or received by others too often feels like a necessary evil. This is especially true when I consider that this path that I have chosen in recent years has increased the need for collaboration and interaction with others rather than prompted me towards my ideal of living as a recluse.

    Being reclusive is a luxury in a messed up world, albeit a luxury that offers peace. My convictions, however, will not allow me to indulge my needs while growing painfully aware of the slide of society towards the abyss due to the selfishness of those who are blessed with resources to change its course. Too many assume those resources to be wealth and influence, while the truth is that anyone that has value to offer must offer it if it is ever to amount to anything.

    In that lies the rub of many of my contemplations. The easier path was always one of quiet living. Keeping to myself and minding my own business. Yet, each time I attempted such a lifestyle I found myself attracting those, even in that space, that needed to be freed from a burden that was wearing them down. But like I’ve said in past brain dumps, there are many who, after they have been uplifted, would prefer to avoid the source of that upliftment because it reminds them of their moments of weakness. Then there are others that would rather not scratch open the festering wound that is slowly poisoning their soul. Their wound grows to define their significance so deeply that any attempt to clean it and heal it is met with seething anger.

    The human condition has always been a fascinating one. Especially my own. I flit between offloading my cluttered thoughts and lecturing the world. Between confusion and pompousness, or doubt and narcissism. It’s so easy to cross those lines, and so tragic to see how many assume themselves to be above such crossing.

    A brain dump once offered much therapy for a mind as cluttered and crazy as my own. Therapy has morphed over the years. At one point it was a flirty glance, and a whispered nothing. Over the lifetimes that followed it changed to become a knowing smile, or a familiar embrace, both of which have been elusive. The brutal honesty with which I considered these changes has left and been replaced by a measured expression. The problem with being measured is that it never allows a release of the truth that holds us back, or keeps us distracted.

    In the absence of such expression, clutter normalises and focus flees. Apparently using alliteration is discouraged for authors. I suspect that’s only for authors that lack the wit to appreciate it. Oh yes, the brain dump. I entertained, in recent months, the naive notion that those for whom I maintained a measured expression actually paid attention to my ramblings. The naivety of my being always provided a source of morbid entertainment for me, and this time was nothing less. However, age old jokes tend to lose their humour as we progress through the years that shape us…occasionally we try to shape them.

    Listening to Milli Vanilli in the background, I’m reminded of the frailty of the human ego. I’m reminded of how many would sacrifice their own authenticity to find acceptance at almost any cost. Some, at any cost at all. It’s the sight of such sadness that always leaves me unsettled. Looking into the eyes of those that court acceptance and seeing the emptiness behind it. Seeing vulnerability in the eyes of another has always been a torturous taunt. Ah, that damned alliteration again.

    Vulnerability is strength if expressed sincerely, but disheartening if exposed unwillingly. There is too much weakness in this world. Even the statements of rebellion that occupy my social media timeline are cries of pain disguised as an obstinate protest. Thankfully the playlist moved on to Tracy Chapman now. A story of self-doubt and raw beauty. She actually thought she would be mocked if anyone heard her sing. Thankfully someone convinced her otherwise. How many of us are waiting for someone to convince us that we have something of value to share with this heartless world before we dare to expose it to the light?

    So much is lost in the doubts that drive a wedge between who we are and who we’re willing to allow the world to think we are. Genius, beauty, creativity, artistic expression, passionate protests and so much more are all hidden from the world because of the hideous consideration about what society would think. If only we recognised that we normalise the prejudices of society when we afford it merit or virtue. Many a great nation was destroyed because they grew to worship their traditions and taboos more than the principles that established the value that underpinned it. Tradition and taboo are two things I’ve rarely respected. It always seemed like an unaffordable indulgence in light of the suffering souls that succumbed to the expectations of the flag-bearers.

    To be normal in a distorted world implies distortion of the self. Whether or not the world is distorted is all about perspective. But then, what isn’t about perspective? If I find the world to be distorted and another doesn’t does it make my perspective invalid, or does it call into question their misinformation…or perhaps mine? Defending the truth is a tricky endeavour when such truth is so open to being bent. The more aware we are of how it can be bent the greater that distortion.

    We seem to have reached a stage in human history where our eloquence is so pervasive that the most uninformed opinion can find support and a seemingly valid defense. Life itself is a distortion of the reality of death. But alas, who wants to contemplate death, despite it being the only guarantee we have. Such morbidity is reserved for those that are foolish enough to believe that they can challenge the traditions and taboos to break the yoke that weighs us down.

    A chuckling sigh is all I can muster at the thought of that last statement. A chuckling sigh indeed.

  • The Value of Sanity

    The Value of Sanity

    One of the paths to insanity is to try to reason around someone else’s actions or behaviour by assuming that their value system is the same as yours. When you find it difficult to get through to someone, step back and consider two things. Are they genuinely interested in hearing you? Do they respect the same value system that you do? If the answer to both questions is Yes, consider a different approach. If No, walk away.

  • I’m a victim…of you…and me.

    I look around these days and see more people depressed, downtrodden, suicidal, and hopeless compared to people that have wholesome lives, a healthy self-esteem, and a general appreciation for the good that they have and the good that they are. For every person that I’ve seen going through intense despair or depression or self-loathing, I’ve witnessed the cause of their anguish to be based on either one of two things…acceptance by their families, or acceptance by society. 

    Non-acceptance by family, in my opinion, is infinitely more painful and destructive because there’s a blood tie that won’t ever completely recede. So our need to be part of a bonded structure will always gnaw at us. 

    On the other hand, non-acceptance by society is infinitely more confusing. Almost every single time I’ve witnessed that non-acceptance to be based on the appearance or social integration of the individual, yet those same individuals refuse to acknowledge that they’re trying to fit in with ridiculous stereotypical expectations of the lame-minded, and in doing so, they perpetuate that very same destructive social culture that brought them to that point.

    Let’s judge people on their looks, and then mourn the loss of another teenager to suicide because she was never thin enough, pretty enough, lewd enough, religious enough, intelligent enough or simply not enough because they judge based on unrealistic icons rather than appreciating the unique beauty that is staring right at them. 

    Let’s completely forget that the rights of the community is greater than the rights of the individual so that we may never achieve the wholesomeness of past generations. The more liberated we become, the more enslaved our minds are. So we spurn those that are different, and torment those that choose to be different, because the majority have been brain washed into believing that fitting in is more important than being sincere. 

    We’ve become obsessed with our individual right of expression, and oblivious to the impact of our actions and decisions on those around us. Yet, when we suffer from the harsh effects of exactly that same selfishness, we fail to see the selfishness in our own actions, and so we continue fooling ourselves into believing that society is what causes us this pain and anguish, not realising that we actively support that very same societal standard that brought us to this point, and pushed many beyond. 

    All these selfish individuals that actively subscribe to these selfish standards of society are members of those very same family units that fail to accept some of its own flesh and blood. And so the vicious cycle continues.