I am disappointed. Furious. Frustrated.
I want to shout and scream, I want to trash glasses and plates to hear their breaking noise.
I am suicidal. I imagine over and over again how I drive full speed into walls and crash my car beyond recognition. And I imagine my body like the wooden mannequins that always get smashed and torn when used for driver safety tests.
I am disappointed.
I am tired. Exhausted. Overwhelmed. Humble.
I am crying too much. I am running too little. I am afraid of the sunshine. I am, again, afraid of the green green grass.
I am, again, afraid of people.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Cold shower
A quote:
"
I never got used to your pessimism. The fatigue. The pessimism was only sometimes. The fatigue was constant. It distracted you. It sucked out your energy. It made you look older. It eats you from the inside. And it makes life harder for you. You strive for too much at first - and run out of hours in the day to get those things done. Set reasonable goals. Few, but get them right. I know you can. It was annoying to see you not meet a goal. You are a brilliant mind. Don't waste it by putting 10,000 bricks on it. Start with 10. Then do the next 10 later.
"
Should I feel happy? Sad? Optimistic? Pessimistic?
Is that good?
Is that bad?
Is that really who I am ?!
"
I never got used to your pessimism. The fatigue. The pessimism was only sometimes. The fatigue was constant. It distracted you. It sucked out your energy. It made you look older. It eats you from the inside. And it makes life harder for you. You strive for too much at first - and run out of hours in the day to get those things done. Set reasonable goals. Few, but get them right. I know you can. It was annoying to see you not meet a goal. You are a brilliant mind. Don't waste it by putting 10,000 bricks on it. Start with 10. Then do the next 10 later.
"
Should I feel happy? Sad? Optimistic? Pessimistic?
Is that good?
Is that bad?
Is that really who I am ?!
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
The complex ((number) and) schizophrenia
Yes, I've been avoiding you.
I am not ready, yet, to reconcile with myself. On what you are. To me. For some reason, I don't want to admit I have lost. I don't want to admit I want more. I don't want to play games. I don't want ... I just want you. In my life. Close to me. Really close to me.
Impossible, I know. Rejected. Not real. Imaginary? Yes. As you are mine in the alternative reality I've built on the vertical axis. The imaginary axis. The one to measure dreaming. Addictive - yes. Illegal? Not yet.
Yes, I know, I'm being hurt - again - by my own dreams. I build them in my own crystal globe - more beautiful than they will ever be. Then - smash it on the floor, in thousands of small, sharp pieces. Rub my soul with them until it bleeds to death. Beg for it to die. TO DIE. But it resurrects, with the stubbornness of spiders climbing the Empire State Building. The patience of snails traveling around the world. Imaginary. Infinite. And (de)generative.
Should I stop? Maybe. But then - what's left of zero? I am only special in my dreams. I am only alive in my own world. The one orthogonal on reality. It will never be(come?) real.
Blame it on my schizophrenia. And wish they will take me away from this world, that they call real, and let me live in my beautiful math world. No loss - it's math, everything is perfect.
But no, they'll never do it. I've been baptised by the real world, and I will have to live and die (t)here. I'm complex - yet my imaginary part only belongs to the mathematically drawn reality in my head. I'm just a complex number stuck on a graph with two orthogonal axes - a clash of worlds.
I am not ready, yet, to reconcile with myself. On what you are. To me. For some reason, I don't want to admit I have lost. I don't want to admit I want more. I don't want to play games. I don't want ... I just want you. In my life. Close to me. Really close to me.
Impossible, I know. Rejected. Not real. Imaginary? Yes. As you are mine in the alternative reality I've built on the vertical axis. The imaginary axis. The one to measure dreaming. Addictive - yes. Illegal? Not yet.
Yes, I know, I'm being hurt - again - by my own dreams. I build them in my own crystal globe - more beautiful than they will ever be. Then - smash it on the floor, in thousands of small, sharp pieces. Rub my soul with them until it bleeds to death. Beg for it to die. TO DIE. But it resurrects, with the stubbornness of spiders climbing the Empire State Building. The patience of snails traveling around the world. Imaginary. Infinite. And (de)generative.
Should I stop? Maybe. But then - what's left of zero? I am only special in my dreams. I am only alive in my own world. The one orthogonal on reality. It will never be(come?) real.
Blame it on my schizophrenia. And wish they will take me away from this world, that they call real, and let me live in my beautiful math world. No loss - it's math, everything is perfect.
But no, they'll never do it. I've been baptised by the real world, and I will have to live and die (t)here. I'm complex - yet my imaginary part only belongs to the mathematically drawn reality in my head. I'm just a complex number stuck on a graph with two orthogonal axes - a clash of worlds.
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