GOD & OBJECTIVITY AN ADVANCED CASE OF SCHIZOPHRENIA
The next morning I woke up, having been lifted from energies that were not of me and could not belong to me, hence the itching. When something is not you it starts itching you, discomfort is what you feel when you are out of your natural realm, which is why you can not tickle yourself though it might be a lot of fun; your body knows you so it doesn’t fancy you a stranger, when a stranger tickles you, it tickles not so much because it is enjoyable but mostly because it is strange. If you suffer a tickling fetish, feathers please, if you suffer such it is because you want to be a stranger to yourself. Some people manage to be strangers to themselves, which is to say that they can tickle themselves to death.
When you are a stranger to yourself you think that there is something out there, you hear and feel external entities guiding you with indiscernible whispers, you follow the designated path given to you by these external beings which of course are really only you trying to talk to yourself; only you don’t know this because you don’t recognize yourself so you give meaning to more external voices. And then before you are aware of your own self, you decide that because there are external beings that there are also external symbols, so you start to investigate and categorize the external symbols, which of course don’t really exist, only now you are using them to guide you and to facilitate your path towards the beings which you have identified as your leaders.
But then one day you drink some soup offered to you by a very nice witch and everything changes. A walk in the woods, a letter to your best friend that does not meet with affable correspondence, and the fastidious odor of change, where you know you will not return to your self of minutes pasts, where you will miss some of the pump and nostalgia which you had nurtured, when you could still suffer the sentimentality brought on by tragedy and death, by loss or sour gains, days to be gone behind you now. How or why it was now impossible to sympathize with these sympathies inexplicable. Could you have gone through so much tragedy that your being came numb from it? No, that is too simple, the new found insensibility was not insensible, you could still suffer the idea of each discomfort, you just did not believe in the brutality of each, you could not cause the imaginings to initiate your pain sensors, instead they brought a feeling of awareness of how gentle and fragile existence is, within and without, and one can opt for suffering the fragileness of it all or to enjoy it, you were now enjoying it.
That morning you went to your old favorite hide outs preparing for your departure, a departure that had nothing to do with distance and everything to do with being, you prepared your favorite joints and friends for the departure by throwing them a few of your lines, knowing only well that it would be the last time that they would hear you speak with such wit and intellectual flavor, a gift you had to exorbitance and yet now you were challenging the gift the gods had generously poured your way; now you intended to poured into extinction. Ah such liberty was now within your grasp where to discard your greatest gifts became an obvious necessity, it was not about doing well in the world today, it was about being apart of the world tomorrow. You would miss the hangouts, nurtured for years by your solitude, more so that each Martini would have more in common with you, so that each cup of coffee was kept warmer because the owner would pour another on the house causing you warm smiles; oh those last moments before a magnificent departure, moments that can not envision what lies ahead, where fortune will be discarded, where every advantage given by the external world will be disregarded, so as to live completely another life, within this one existence. And the only comfort zone afforded you was that life is fragile, no grievous error could outlive your mortality, no monstrosity could last more than half of your life, it was all you had left, and maybe even less than half. Maybe less indeed.
But inside all of your being was aware that your discontinuity here was also your continuity here; maybe you could not find enough fears to keep you trapped in this place but frightfully foreboding, your every error could immortalize itself here. Where you might be increasingly less here, yet more here because of it, more here where the present seeks the future, only the failure of your magnificent quest would relegate you to obscurity, where every entrance would become an exit, where every hope could congregate into perdition, where every compromise would surrender everything, and where the determination of your quest could only blind you to the real one. There was nothing to do but to go into it blindfolded, there was not enough evidence in the world to support any of your actions, your belief was all you had in hand, and only with that, you prepare to write the final chapters.
When you are a stranger to yourself you think that there is something out there, you hear and feel external entities guiding you with indiscernible whispers, you follow the designated path given to you by these external beings which of course are really only you trying to talk to yourself; only you don’t know this because you don’t recognize yourself so you give meaning to more external voices. And then before you are aware of your own self, you decide that because there are external beings that there are also external symbols, so you start to investigate and categorize the external symbols, which of course don’t really exist, only now you are using them to guide you and to facilitate your path towards the beings which you have identified as your leaders.
But then one day you drink some soup offered to you by a very nice witch and everything changes. A walk in the woods, a letter to your best friend that does not meet with affable correspondence, and the fastidious odor of change, where you know you will not return to your self of minutes pasts, where you will miss some of the pump and nostalgia which you had nurtured, when you could still suffer the sentimentality brought on by tragedy and death, by loss or sour gains, days to be gone behind you now. How or why it was now impossible to sympathize with these sympathies inexplicable. Could you have gone through so much tragedy that your being came numb from it? No, that is too simple, the new found insensibility was not insensible, you could still suffer the idea of each discomfort, you just did not believe in the brutality of each, you could not cause the imaginings to initiate your pain sensors, instead they brought a feeling of awareness of how gentle and fragile existence is, within and without, and one can opt for suffering the fragileness of it all or to enjoy it, you were now enjoying it.
That morning you went to your old favorite hide outs preparing for your departure, a departure that had nothing to do with distance and everything to do with being, you prepared your favorite joints and friends for the departure by throwing them a few of your lines, knowing only well that it would be the last time that they would hear you speak with such wit and intellectual flavor, a gift you had to exorbitance and yet now you were challenging the gift the gods had generously poured your way; now you intended to poured into extinction. Ah such liberty was now within your grasp where to discard your greatest gifts became an obvious necessity, it was not about doing well in the world today, it was about being apart of the world tomorrow. You would miss the hangouts, nurtured for years by your solitude, more so that each Martini would have more in common with you, so that each cup of coffee was kept warmer because the owner would pour another on the house causing you warm smiles; oh those last moments before a magnificent departure, moments that can not envision what lies ahead, where fortune will be discarded, where every advantage given by the external world will be disregarded, so as to live completely another life, within this one existence. And the only comfort zone afforded you was that life is fragile, no grievous error could outlive your mortality, no monstrosity could last more than half of your life, it was all you had left, and maybe even less than half. Maybe less indeed.
But inside all of your being was aware that your discontinuity here was also your continuity here; maybe you could not find enough fears to keep you trapped in this place but frightfully foreboding, your every error could immortalize itself here. Where you might be increasingly less here, yet more here because of it, more here where the present seeks the future, only the failure of your magnificent quest would relegate you to obscurity, where every entrance would become an exit, where every hope could congregate into perdition, where every compromise would surrender everything, and where the determination of your quest could only blind you to the real one. There was nothing to do but to go into it blindfolded, there was not enough evidence in the world to support any of your actions, your belief was all you had in hand, and only with that, you prepare to write the final chapters.
posted by Ricardo Correa at 8/31/2006 10:37:00 AM
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