Take a Peak Behind the Mask

"Success is the sole earthly judge of right and wrong."- Adolf Hitler

Sunday, November 27, 2011

The World Keeps Turning

"Belief in God?  An afterlife?  I believe in rock:  this apodictic rock beneath my feet."  ~Edward Abbey

Life changes. The world turns. Who I am today is a shadow of the person I was a month ago. Two months ago. A year ago.

I haven't posted because I've been in limbo. My reality is askew; I'm bored, delusional and drowning. In what? Perhaps a vat of my own cold, stagnant saliva. Is this a coma or is life really all just a dream?

If you're questioning my current success, that's just a foregone conclusion. Of course I'm just as merrily thriving as before. Better, actually. How that remains to be the case is beyond me. Of course I'm brilliant, of course of course! But since when has that had anything to do with success? I can tell you right now; success is not a matter of intelligence but of dogged persistence--motivation. If you can propel your fat ass into a mere 90% of the opportunities in your path I guarantee you at least a modicum of glory.

So what's my problem? As I fiddle with the Sharpie in my mouth, twisting and scraping it against my canines, I ponder my own question. What is my problem? Besides the overabundance of squint-eyed lemon-crackers working as baggers in my local grocery store or the reemergence of niggerisms in everyday Caucasian English, I can't imagine what could be bothering me. Maybe it's just the weather.

But the thing is, ladies and gentlepaths, I've always found the biting winds and piercing rains of winter to be a turn on-- one of many. That's right, if you happen to be curious they also include candle-lit dinners, basketweaving and long slices across tender flesh (preferably delivered with the teasing edge of a braided whip). However, I digress.

Why is the night denying our kinship? Why has the moon silenced its nightly call? We used to be such blushing lovers, the Moon and I. Nothing but the brash emergence of sunlight or the promise of a copper-tinted fiesta could part us. But it has. Who am I now?

I'll admit, I feel a bit lost. Not myself. A stranger in a strange mind. Two and two never quite equals four for a sociopath, but we sure can be damned convincing it's five. Morphing people into my reality is half of my survival.  Yet the further I spiral into this rabbit hole of self-delusion the more I have to question if my reality really is in my control at all.

Some people sob at the softest mention of cancer within. All I can say is there is a much more sinister disease burbling in this demonic blood of mine. Boredom; perhaps a hybrid virus of Holy Water and Jew Blood, is the most horrific plight I can imagine. And it afflicts me. Rotting my eyeballs inside, then out. Setting my skin on fire- then dousing it with ice before I can be dazzled by macabre sparks.

Boredom is the Devil and I am fucking possessed.

My complete lack of motivation has always been staggering. Here I sit, posting for the first time in much too long. Meanwhile, my life speeds off without me. Work piles up unmolested. A hundred things need doing and none of them are being done. But alas, Boredom has adhered itself and is here to stay. 

By now this pen of mine is ragged and pulpy-- another victim of passive compulsions. I continue to chew it, easily ignoring its silent cries for help, and consider how I'll end this foray into writing something while really writing nothing. With a joke? With a quote?  A word of wisdom or recipe for Spiced Yolk?

It's hard to write from behind a mask when it's begun clinging to your skin. I can't show you what's beneath when I can't pry the damn thing off. Hence, my lack of posting. Hence, my lacking sanity. Hence hence hence, the End. Not of me, but of this babbling, rambling, rant. 


Anonymous said...

i haven’t seen the moon in awhile

…i am always the shadow of the person I am suppose be…

i don't “feel” like
i'm allowed to pretend
anymore, so i'm
splitting at the seams
with words i never even utter,
safe inside my dreams...

i once dreamt-

of the morning i would wake up and feel wings

emerge from my angel bones

only i woke up to realize i wasn’t asleep and remembered
i have no angel bones

and you have no face to show…
motivation lacking, boredom sets in and you
haven’t found that creative inspiration (stimulation) you need to change masks…
to alter your ego…

a slice across tender flesh

so i ask you…

what do you do
when your eyes are already
and still,
imprinted on your eyelids
are scenes and thoughts
and typographical imagery
that are thick
like blood,
and enough
to drive you to madness?

(is this the closest you can come to “feeling” something?)

....if only to feed MY narcissism
for a second or two...

Anonymous said...

I love your blog, seriously.

A Neighborhood Psychopath said...

You know, ZK, it doesn't really matter if you don't post something new often or rarely. When the things you do write are this good, then amount, number, mass, etc. does not matter. Quality always transcends quantity.

That said, what you describe, I know it well.
Yeah, this article is sure to resonate with others on the spectrum.

I've found that this kind of thing - the state of mind that you describe - tends to come and go, and it can't be helped. It's like the tide. But for most of us it also cannot last - unless we will it to.

But I should ask you, perhaps, if this to you is a permanent state? Have you been through this before? If yes, have you found what it was that made things turn?

Anonymous said...

this state of mind, is a dangerous state and not just one pertinent to "his" personality type (or those like "him"), but is suffered universally by all personality types-though to different extremes.

high-tide, low-tide, ebb and flow, just because you are an unfeeling creature does not mean you don't go through ups and downs of some kind or another".

those like "him" tend to find it most stiffling and frustrating because they are not able to process these "feelings" like an empath would, its an entire new thing...festering and sick, a beast born of angry bordom...when uncontrolled it becomes explosive rage, when controlled it feels like the verge of insanity.

and its when controlled and uncontrolled look the same- all the while that bordom eats at your very core.

intelligence doesn't like to be met with road blocks but what intelligence does like are challenges.they are a turn on, they are inspirational, they are stimulating...they are like breathing again, only first,you are stuck momentarily in limbo, gasping for air like a fish out of water...until finally you figure it out...

he doesn't appear to be overly concerned with his lack of posting blogs. that doesn't matter much to him. it deeper than that...its the demon blood stirring within...

i can't help but question if that is what feelings become when they cannot be felt?

let it out

let it out

breathe...its addicting

if this to him is a permanent state? How could he have been through it before?

That question is illogical (which is "ironic" coming for a neighborhood "psychopath"). It would have been better asked: if you have been through this "state" before what did you do to overcome it? What was the releasig point (er breaking point)?

i like to call it a renewal of purging...and it"feels" great

Anonymous said...

this state of mind is not only a "dangerous state" but a necessary one

not to discredit "neighborhood psychopath"observation, perhaps i read the intent of his/her statement wrong, in a some way the ebb and flow is a "permanent" thing...

Anonymous said...

I demand NEW post

are you arrested?

Anonymous said...

those monsters are working themselves out i suppose, let him be...you can't cage a wild things to random spills of wordage...which is probably the closest he will ever get to "emotions".

Anonymous said...

i too find my mind at a pause..something is going on in the air..something is changing

Anonymous said...

he needs time, he is deepening his solitude and strengthening the barriers that separate him and define him from the "feeling" world. he is refreshing himself in a bath of shadows.

why do people so fear the dark? there is a certain beauty to be found there- a truth rooted in a so tortured perception of a reality beyond his control and our understanding. he tries to explain it, we try to understand.

his words are empty of "feeling" of "emotion" and are indolent and full of strange perversions; they are perfumed with exotic perfumes; they sleep to the sound of viols, or fan themselves languidly in the shadow, and only he sees that it is the shadow of death...and death, death is EMPTY, death is VIOD. Death does not feel, death does not show mercy, death consumes without emotional stings. Its a logical process just as the life of a sociopath is...logical and systematic, pure instinct for survival-those animalistic tendencies/urges he HAS to control to fit into this "feeling" world.

when you're not as much human as you are monster
every human died. i'm still here.

He will speak when he is ready, if he so chooses to...ever again.

Anonymous said...

are you alive,in prison,you haven't posted in nearly 2 years,& while it doesn't mean much to you we miss you

Anonymous said...

He is unique even among his 'own kind'. So far beyond and above them, more so than they or even he could ever be aware of. The loss of insight into that magnificent mind of his that we were privileged to, is nothing short of tragic. - Frith