Neurotic

It’s 4am and the cat is dead
A paradox in equinox
Inside my head
It’s raining

I’m losing ground and losing light
Your x-ray vision
Is out of sight
I’m straining

And it’s cold, on the second of July
And it’s cold, every time that I lie
That I lie, That I lie.

A vigil of the princes taking place
But she’s already dead
I’m way to late
It’s painful

Accident, suicide or vanity
Just like Narcissus
It’s profanity
I’m shameful

And it’s cold, on the second of July
And it’s cold every time that I lie
That I lie, That I lie.

I’m neurotic, I’m neurotic.
I’m neurotic, neurotic.

Made of Stars: Personal Revelations Drawn From the Work of Carl Sagan

We are made of stardust and we shall return to it

We need not make up amazing stories of our creation

One already exists

Look out into the universe with awe

Look into ourselves with awe

We are a universe within ourselves



We are matter that flows throughout the universe

Our energy and matter may one day end up

In places whose existence we can’t even grasp

We are children of both the earth and the sky

Our voyages of discovery are many and diversified

But this does not mean that they all have different intents



What we have found in just a few hundred years

Is enough to extend our consciousness

Beyond the reaches of what humans can imagine

And as we voyage further into enlightenment

As the human race evolves

Our place in all this will become more apparent



We must all remember these extraordinary revelations

Even just in the recesses of our of unconscious minds

For in doing this we help to create a world

Of more harmonious interaction

In this we help further the cause to reach the stars

And ourselves.

Something Old....

A re-post of a work posted on DeviantArt

Sometimes I have the feeling of burning, even though I am so cold my teeth clash together in a cacophany of frozen sound. The epiphany, the amazing thought that I arrive at is that the feeling of burning is wrought by the feeling that I am melting into the fabric of the universe, silently and unamazingly, no bang to resound as I begin my descent.
I see myself being that which I wish not to be but am powerless to stop it. I can not wring out of myself that which I desire. Perhaps the power within myself I have sought so long does not exist, never existed in me. But how does one ever know that. when all around you tell you that only the weak give up reaching for the power that exists within them. When does one know when they have reached the limitations of that power, when continuing to try proves fruitless? How does one discern this from apathy?
This is a question for the ages surely. As mysterious and as unanswerable as the question of God and just as hollow, if not more so. Do all people ponder these things in the dark hours before sleep takes hold of their minds? Perhaps they do and forget it in the morning. Not I. These things do not only exist in my brain but they take hold of it tightly and refuse to let go until my head is screaming with questions it cannot answer.
Do you ever get the feeling someone is watching you? Feel a non-existant breath on your shoulder or see the flicker of human form in that ever decietful corner of your eye? I do. Sometimes. And the shivers come unaided uninhibited. Their icy fingers like a persons breath on a cold day crawl up my spine. They try to take purchase in my very flesh, their icy claws like glass, but under my thin skin my black coal heart is inpervius to them, but for how much longer?
Can one forever hold off whatever is trying to attack them? Wether it be madness or else? Or will I become like the forgotten Kings in castle sieges? Holled up in my castle watching all around me die and fall away, all hope for an end without torture and death lost?
If I find answers to these questions, what then? Will there be more or will I live forever having nothing left to answer? Would I be serene? Scared? Or perhaps so bored as to take my own life for the knowing of all life's answers must surely be not only a lonely place but also a place of no comfort, for thats what lies and theories are meant for.
Perhaps we are only inhibited in finding answers by our own fear. People often do not understand that fear is often what makes one take their own life. Not the usual fear of death and the unknown but fear of life, of living forever the way they are. Fear of the known, and that fear is so much more powerful. It sucks you down like a vortex into a pit where rational thought becomes fantasy and where death seems the only door. The key can be any number of things, but get it wrong and the consequences can be dire. That is a thought which scares some back into rationality.
Others are not so unfortunate.
If we could see the minds of others, really see them in all their fullness and complexity oh how the mentally ill would benefit. To be able to see what a cured life, what a charmed life can feel like. Living that life scares me more than anything else.Will I still feel with the intensity with which I do now? I do not wish to feel the lows so intensly but will my highs be dulled too? I could not live that life. I think I would kill myself from the sheer mundane bore of that.
It is a hard thing when you know that you don't want the cure but you hate the way things are, that constant state of limbo is the worst part of depression. At least when you are suicidal you can see an end to that, almost taste it.
Alas, alack rationality comes back. Or else some other reason to stop ones self and so now I am back at this self inflicted state of limbo. All because of black thoughts. Pain, fear, uncertainty, to much certainty.
The chain, the cycle is again repeated, the bonds that hold it together grow stronger and harder to break. No mere medication can save me now. Some kind of intense treatment is needed. Perhaps if they noticed in grade 5 or 6 or earlier, at the tiny signs that showed up during my pre-pubescence I could have been saved. Perhaps if I'd had the power then to ask for help I could have saved myself but then we get back to my original question. Do I hold that power? Did I ever hold that power? The power with which one saves ones self. The power one needs to survive their own mind. Do I have this? Do I own it? Did I ever?

An introduction to a book I never wrote...

Too much these days is made of worshipping yourself first. Popularity of sayings such as “Your body is your temple” and “Look out for number one” has meant that society is now a bunch of people looking only to help themselves and never anyone else if it is at their expense. Whilst I do not seek to espouse that we should help our fellow man at our own expense it does delve deeper into the self. Why do we worship ourselves above all others? What do we hope to achieve by amassing knowledge of self help techniques? Why do we seek to create a life for ourselves rather than destroy it? Part of this no doubt is the chemical structure of the brain, and I am sure I will be written off by some as a talentless, depressive no hoper, but this is just another path to self destruction, sweet glorious destruction. I only to show those that think like I do that self destruction can lead to inner peace, that putting yourself last is sometimes the way to become whole and that normal people can become the nothing of the universe.
I do not seek to have people kill themselves, maim themselves or to follow any part of what I say, but there has to be something said for the other side, for how the other side lives, for the destructors, the depressives and the totalitarian anarchists. Put yourself last and discover the world of the trodden down, the beauty in pain and abuse. Put yourself last and become the monster you feared. It isn’t that hard, but here are some tips to help you start. Here is my beautiful downfall, enjoy.

Shakespearian Hatred

You are an unneeded letter, relegated to the forgotten ends of the alphabet.
You’re unchaste nature made a meal of you and it shows through in the sallow skin of your face.
You speak vilely spitting your vitriol like so much bilious mess
And lo, your capricious hatred bursts forth in at any moment; showing it knows no bounds.

To those quieted and civil in nature your character, both rude and abrupt, disrupts them deeply; but you care not for their peace.
Nor do you care for the quiet, diligent and gentle way they go about tending to the pastures of their lives.
You dance through the fields trampling their hard work into dust and feeling you have made an impact and then;
When all is done you trounce your way out through the undergrowth.
Stomping like so much of a child and leaving footprints in your wake.
Truly it is that you have never grown.
Truly it is that you, unneeded, unchaste, bilious, capricious beast;
Are all spleen, and nothing of a man.

Contemplate this...

I had contrived this idea that I needed no one in a romantic sense. I thought my loneliness was simply that, being that I was alone. I thought adding this man into my house and as a constant figure in my life would help remedy that. But as nice as he is, as wonderful as the pleasure of his company can be, it makes me stress harder, and the truth is I am still alone.
I still sleep at night by myself wishing I wasn't, and still think back to the days and nights when I would lay by Steve, where I was, filled with bliss. Bliss because I was in love, so thoroughly, so completely, I never allowed myself to contemplate it's end because it seemed to painful to even consider, but now?
Now I live it and I was right, too painful to even think about.

The Worship of a King of Hell

You appeared as one but two€
Angels on a chariot of fire;
And you spread your lies and deceit
As far into me as as my awe made possible.

Your adulterous ways were hidden
Behind a veil of beauty
But such evil and wretchedness
Cannot hide forever.

You are a King of my Hell.
You are a destroyer of the soul.
He, who does so present himself as an angel
In a deceit, to steal from me my very essence;
As if in some kind of joke!

Once touched by you, once marked;
No amount of repentance;
No amount of remorse,
No worship at the alter of the self could remove it.

For I have knelt before thine evil,
And my lips are stained with the kiss of you.

Belial