If you can relate - you understand. If you can't - you don't. The world is really just one giant collection of overlapping Venn universes: some are big, some are small - and some are very exclusive.
At the end of my dreams I often experience intricate, geometric, kaleidoscope-like animations. Brain cancer or glitches in my nightly sim-download? (I gave-up on the Rube Goldberg device - it got too messy).
I feel an obligation to sacrifice my lede wrapper for a public service announcement. There is a fine line between inhabiting an emotional state and rationalizing mental illness as an identity. If confused or in doubt, seek professional help - there really are other emotions. Or so I am told.
Ah, the simple joy of taking something apart and - well, that's it. I need an undo-command. Or a real-life "Watson" that puts things back together for me.
I've done weeklies for articles or comics, but never a daily - so HBM was a personal 90-day challenge. The world is "so 2020" right now and it's time to wonder, what's the point? Wherever that tent is - hopefully a big pillow fort with WiFi - it looks cozy. The end?
The world is depressing. I'm sad. So. This. Just go "no pulp" - you don't want to lose any important stuff. Also, don't forget to check the expiration date. If it spoils - it becomes permanent. Not saying that's bad. Just worth noting.
Honestly, I am too exhausted to dig. I am going to have to go out, find a deep hole, fling myself in and hope for the worst.
I set sail ... with the stormy heavens crushing the sea, and my heart twisted with dying. (J. P. Donleavy - The Ginger Man)
For a brief time I was here - and for a brief time I mattered. (Harlan Ellison)
Oh, how I yearn for the simpler times. When if you weren't dead by age 14 - you wished you were. And you just didn't have the time, energy or sufficient fucks to care about the world. Or the people in it.
An absolutely annoying aspect of my life is the sheer volume of thoughts and ideas I have at night - especially between dreams - that I feel obligated to write down. Like this one. It feels like torture.
Embarrassingly bad? Yep. But this poem (full text in my blog) marked the transition from my mostly winging it with luck and talent to really putting in the effort on writing. And for that it is my favorite.
The third time I met death was age 5. Snuck in the neighbor's yard to pet puppies. They stopped biting when my head hit the driveway and I was knocked out. Woke up in ER. Got a sucker. It was orange. My life? It was all stolen time.
By far, the worst trait that I have yet to overcome - is impatience. Especially when it comes to getting or finding an answer. Other things, like procrastinating or never being on-time - aren't flaws. That’s who I am.
Live with regret over action or inaction? Me? I would rather face questions of being wrong about my judgment - rather than about myself. But. In either case. Healing begins after acceptance. Then learning.
I was raised by extroverts, but genetics made me an introvert. No matter how adequately developed my interpersonal communication skills appear to be - the antisocial demons inside of me want out.
Collect data, analyze patterns - doubt my conclusions. Usually my subconscious works it out overnight. My weakness? Prolonged ambiguity. It creates a loop - I reconsider EVERYTHING again and again hunting for mistakes.
I have always used my memory and the ability to make random connections - to generate insight. I had hoped there was SOME intelligence or creativity involved. Instead, apparently - it's just brain damage.
Weird HBM journal entry #237. If only. (Note. This is humor. It may not be funny. But it is humor. I think.)
3am. Woke from a dream. As I was drifting back to sleep - this is the random question that popped into my head. And my actual answer. Sarcasm? Or does my subconscious need held for observation?