ME-1st Slideshow and MY ARTWORKS-2cd/bottom Slideshow

Chat Live!

Saturday, January 22, 2011

10 Commandments



‎My 10 Commandments:

1. Never trust anyone
2. Repeat#1
3. You can only depend on 1 person in life:YOU
4. Alone is the Best way
5. When in doubt, rip off the bandaid, cut the umbelical cord
6. Life is a gift:be eternally grateful
7. It can Always be better and Always be worse
8. You exist for a Reason:find it
9, Maktub:Have Faith.It Is Written
10. You only have 1 set of parents.

*IF you find Real Love:Override1-5,risk Everything for it.

Wednesday, January 05, 2011

The Steppenwolf

* NOTE: I wrote this during my long "hell of the abyss" period of this past year.
Down on the floor, depressed into torment for months.

Have progressed since then. Blessed and grateful to YOU and the universe.....

reading Hesse's Steppenwolf today was a grand fucking insight. The man who is outside of society, looks down upon civilization, hates the hipocracy, struggles for liberation and isolation from it. Yet what is the root of his disgust of humanity? Self hatred. Bleeding, vile, unmistakable, undeniable and inescapable self-hatred. Self-hatred which is the same side of self-love. He hates humanity and yet loves it more than anyone on the planet possibly could, the depth of his hatred as deep as his love. And how he feels of the planet and the human world is how he feels of himself. How ironic, how bitter it is to know that I am indeed this Steppenwolf. This creature of the steppes, this diseased being. Despite all of the external pleasantries, this putrid knowledge of the disappointment I am to my own self, this horrific truth that I cannot run from, that is the key to my freedom. Me facing my own self-hatred. Combined it is with self-love, combined with love of humanity and hatred for it's systemic rule. But without this blinding self-hatred, I really have no ambition, no goals, no drive, no need. It is this tormented state which makes anything possible. Where does it stem from? Well, yes, as the logical psychological analysis would assume, from childhood. From knowing that what I am is so different and so marked that it will never run alongside the sheep, such a wolf I am. And knowing that my own parents not only know this putridity, but are also ashamed of it. Yes, that is partly where it began. But the root of my self-hatred lies in me not ever being able to match my own ridiculously high expectations. Needing, craving, wanting to be a god. A god trapped in this human vessel. Seeing it's limitations every second. Suffering with the burden of supremacy, masked by this disgusting skin, body, soul. It never goes away. Everything is an escape away from it. The self-hatred never, ever, ceases to taunt me, mock me, what a joke I am.

What a wretched mess. What a beautiful creation.

I need a miracle. I need to break free. I am tired of this limbo land. I am tired of being forever trapped in this pandamonium. Give me an answer, give me beyond truth, give me the key to unleash my true self.

Blast and damn you universe, for surrounding me with Alexander, with Homer, with Hesse, with Socrates and Da Vinci and Van Gogh and all the Greats. Damn you for allowing me to believe that I could be greater and making it impossible for me to ever be more than what I am.

I hate you, I hate you, I hate you. I love you, I love you, I love you. This mirror, this mask of myself that I constantly see, this is not me. This is too awful to be my reality.

I am a GOD. Let me be one. Please. I'm sick of this. I don't want to be the Steppenwolf. I don't want to be the shunned. I don't want to be the prodigy. I don't want to be just the genius. I want to be a fucking GOD. Why would you torture me with this vision of grandeur if it is unreachable? What kind of living hell are you imprisoning me in? What wretched sins has my spirit done in past lives, in the re-encarnations of my history, to deserve this?

Free me. Free me or give me a way to free myself. This is far too much to bear anymore.

This self-hatred explains Everything.

Explains why I continually suffer and choose to suffer, choose to torture myself, choose the hardest possible path. I am punishing myself. I am killing myself trying to destroy this thing that I am, but never fully destroying it, just close enough where I am always at the brink of destruction. That's the only place I can ever be slightly free, because that is the place where my guilt is appeased. Any shot of happiness, any shot of actual light, I shun it, I turn away. The beast within me can't stand the light, can't stand me shining, knows the horrid thing I actually am.

They think I'm the good guy. The hero. I'm the villian. The demon. The anti-christ. Pure evil. Not because I'm actually powerful enough to be, but because I'm so fucking powerless in my ambition to be all of this. They think I'm Machiavelli. I'm nowhere near it. I'm a constant experiment of my own wants, meeting up with the blockade of possibility. A self-fulfilling prophecy of eternal failure. A doomed one.

It explains why I can only ever fully cum when I have rape, abuse, torture fantasies playing in my head. When I imagine men banging the shit out of me, cursing my name, bitch, slut, whore, violating me, abusing me, flinging me across walls, pissing on me, cutting me. Only when do I feel at the brink of abuse, torture and pain do I cum. So deep is this self-hatred of myself that the only light is for someone to feel the same about me, for another to agree with my own self-hatred.

That is likely why I run away from real love. My system can't process it. Can't fathom why anyone would actually love this horrid thing I am. Can't understand why people call it beautiful, can't comprehend why people call it smart. It's diseased, it's faulty, it's a broken machine. It's a machine that couldn't be fixed even with the best gadgetry. They don't know the real picture. They don't know what's inside. They don't, can't, understand what I actually am.

So that is why I levitate towards people who treat me like shit. It adds to my comfort zone of hating myself.

It's why any time anyone treats me nice I'm in a state of paranoia. Wondering why.

Whenever I face rejection, failure, disappointment, suffering, abuse, these things all make sense to me, these all correlate directly to my truth, to my hatred of my self. Winning, champion, success, all these things make no sense to me, don't fit well or sit at ease with my system. Successes come and go, never consistent, never stable, because I despise myself. I hate myself so much that I subconsciously always find ways to destroy myself.

Well no fucking more.

Fuck my self hatred.

Fuck it all.

I'm going to start learning how to let go of my expectations. I'm going to start embracing people that actually care, actually love me. I'm worth loving, I have to remember that. I'm not a god. I suppose I never will be. Somehow I have to start believing that's enough.

I have to stop with the self-negative thoughts, the self-demeaning traps, all of the negative poison flowing thru my veins.

I have to become whole. I have to become free.

You are what you Decide to be

They were all pigeons. Birds that flocked together, willing to be molded, aching to be taught. Searching for truth, searching for meaning, all too scared to pursue the mysteries of life themselves. It was strange to me the way that they considered it to be holy to bow down and believe in a force that had no mathematical proof. How the whole of generation could sit in this dark tavern and sing choruses of virtue in tribute to nothing but hope. They were the intellectuals, the beggars and the elite. But they were all just helpless pigeons and this empty cathedral was their nesting place. Great wells of fire curled/crawled and purred underneath my eyes. Satanic perhaps, but ever so angry with an astonishing purpose. They were all machines, all hopelessly devoted to being oiled parts of a wheel that would never stop turning. Shaking their palm trees. I was terrified and angry at the revengeful power of Mother Nature. To use her greenery as means of false worshipĂ–. Who were they worshipping if not themselves? They waved their palms. Mine stayed by me. They applauded. I raised my eyebrow. Counterfeited money. Crisp new material. All being folded into tiny crucibles in order to worship their master. I doubt that Nature would ever ask for nickels from her trees. And yet the pigeons paid. They paid for the lamps that lit up their temples. The lights made for knowledge were being used for idle worship. I closed my eyes and breathed in the darkness. They burned and glistened in the betraying light. Words made for sentences were being used for flattery. Flattery that was scorned and ridiculed in our world became accepted among them as long as it was being used for a "holy" purpose. I wanted to laugh out loud but instead I clasped my palms in gratitude that they were mine and I mine alone. They proceeded to be fed. As their ministers would mercilessly devour their hunger before realizing it had been struck with poison. It would kill them. They were not immune, I was, for the crumbs did not touch my lips, just greeted my eyes. My tongue did not make water as theirs did. I swallowed my spit of anger. They spit with words of peace. I was ready to kill the pigeons, then resurrect them as my own. They struck with their gentle thoughts. I grew ill and naseous. But ? Did not spit out my ????. I could not throw out my dismay and it grew in me. Stronger and stronger. Each red day. Every head turned in magnanimous union as the whole moon spoke. Their eyelids closed and opened while mine only fluttered. They were slaves to a master that was keeping them in in destructible chains. Gathering to respect and unleash themselves from the burdens of this supposed world. They were all pigeons. I cried. In this holy tribe I was alone in living on a hilltop with the wolves rather than in a teepee. A teepee cut out of bleeding trees. They who worshipped all of life had the arrogance to chop down Nature's gift to fulfill their superficial and selfish desires. They clawed at my soul as vultures who would never return it. My lips blistered at every word that came out of their song. Horrible entity of time wasted to a mission of absolute hipocracy. Worshipping every human as a whole, I felt separated in my love. Those who I honored, those who I walked with were ignorant to all the greatness of life. These birds built their branches to rest on when all the branches of the world were still unoccupied. The oceans were cleansed and the sands lonely. Then they were in their man-made temples, when the greater asylum of tranquility was lying upon the air of the universe. None looked up, only ahead. I sighed. The fire on the candlesticks stood still. The passionate fire was being murdered by its own hand. They ignored its pain. They blew out its arrogant flames and bowed their heads to the mysterious creature that was unholy in itself. They worshipped the one who worshipped "himself", yet ridiculed the confidant beggars in the street. Their logic amused me, for I watched myself watching them and outside of my head I laughed. The voices while sang in perfect harmony and unison spent time. They could have used it for life. Instead they sang. Their chirping was so beautiful that it caused angry tears to melt upon my face. My skin weeped in the agony of the scene. The beauty and irony of it all. The trained pigeons who fly, but always must come back to where they came from. Their wings clipped at their (the) ends just enough to make practice that they were well. My skin ripped and as I never glanced at the blood I did not bleed. They would have. The chained pigeons. My pigeons. They clasped their hands again. The mantises of Nature always did this ritual before killing their enemy. I was their enemy. I was their friend. I was stabbed but not dead. Not knowing which was ? I kept silent and pinched my body to know it was mine. It was. They flew away and departed in happy praise. I was mournful through the night. Who were they worshipping? Who were they killing? I arrived at the conclusion that they had no idea how fooled they were. I hated church.

I had created a complete world of morons that ironically I happened to love. On a daily basis they ignored or adored me, having absolutely no grasp of everything that they blindly believed in. And I am everything. The worst part is that I have to constantly remain an illusion, because they would never believe that what they knew to be the infinite truth was merely a very elaborate lie.

You've seen me before. Forget the fact that I may have used incorrect grammar or smiled when the occasion called for a frown. You have seen me. And right now I know every thought erupting in your mind. Perhaps you are a critic, analyzing every piece of alphabet that I use so you can conjure up your own american soup. Before you proceed with ideas, I shall inform you that your pitiful attempts at decoding will not earn you fame or retribution. What I am writing is the truth. It is up to you to decide whether it is your truth as well. But remember that no matter how elementary my concepts may be, or how famililliar the "story" sounds, at the end of the day you will know that I can still reach you in dreams.

I was not always so hostile. In fact human beings are not born knowing how to hate.