"I want to kill myself"
Said the fifteen year old boys subconscious. "I want to die as slowly, and painfully as possible."
The years that followed were accompanied with addiction, heartache, loss beyond any measurable term.
This boy grew to a man, a monster, a beast wrought on the path of destruction; self destruction.
If days were years, this life passed slowly, painfully. The aches, the undocumented ailments. Pain was life, suppression was a vacation at times. His eyes had seen all the love in the world, but they also bore witness to the breaking of a man. The thing he became, the thing he hated being, he conjured purposefully to seperate himself from any notion of sociatal acceptance. His voice was still heard, but it was hushed, dulled to a kind whisper. He looked down when he talked, knowing that the sparse encounters with the outside world, changed their view of him, but hardened his reserve to abstain from becoming a socialite. To communicate in any accomodating fashion with another person, even of the intellectual type, was most often merely a process of slowing down the process of arriving at summary that could have been concluded much faster in the quiet stillness of his own mind.
To learn is beautiful, to derive something original from a process considered fringe from the medium used, to think outside the box, and then to burn the box to ash.
Sex, drugs, pleasure, no longer his forte. Choosing instead pain, deprivation, self humiliation. The new art of self destruction had begun, kill the body slowly, but build the mind up strong.
Somehow his life will be some cautionary tale of mental illness, and lack of control. But this tale will be spun upon the very fabric he grew to hate. Only society in some crude fashion could summarize the whole of his parts, break down each section of his life, then come to some accepted conclusion of derangement on his behalf.
Sickness from the inside certainly paints a softer picture, you can feel the wallpaper peeling away, even try to patch it, but the body and mind can't fully be repaired. Is it easier to watch yourself decay, or to knowingly deny the process and wear a smile made from lies?
Benefits come from acceptance. He can knowingly create, form, and imagine things from new perspective; his perspective. Albeit a rather malfunctioned machine, his brain thought differently, it could take a path unpaved.
He feverishly built a world around himself allowing for creative impulse. Justifying his social anxiety, it allowed more time to create, to dream, and never was it slowed by the need to explain an idea.
Lonliness was an art he had mastered, shame, guilt, pure self loathing were but side effects of severing his own ties to anyone that could even begin to understand, or to care.
The afterworld do mean something, a hidden legacy of time spent meticulously toiling away on various prose. Mediums were but a channel, forget classification, forget being tied to some ideal of what expression should be. Just express.
Pain was certainly easier to communicate than happiness, and although oddly optimistic, his life was sinking in peril. Jaded views that weren't acceptable to speak, a gentleman at heart, but worn by the years of moral depravity that seemed to lurk in every dark recess that seemed to stalk him everywhere he went. Reinvention, the idea of the phoenix, born of it's own ashes, became a symbol to him. People live these cycles, they repeat what they know. If they find something different, they reject it, or attempt to twist it into a reality they've always known. This tendency was lost on him, to evolve the self is the easy part, it's to choke down the monotony of daily life that's painful.
"you're asleep" he thought to himself. "they all walk through this existence, without a clue". Even burrowed in his four walled self made prison, he saw the outside world. The suits, cars, lawns, it was their dream, a shared dream. Society creates this world, and spits out anything that doesn't accept it's ideals. Vibrations of matter, objects, even people. Why did any of it matter, if it was all just matter. She sees a chair, and he sees a chair, therefor there is a chair. While everyone else was asleep in their daily lives, he was awake during his sleeping life. Lucid, to be awake and aware. The control of ones mind can only truly be obtained if the dreamworld is understood. He sees a chair, he doesn't accept that it's a chair, now it's a cat. Dreamstate can be more rewarding than waking life, minutes pass as hours, and if the slightest annoyance materializes, a mere thought melts it from existence.
With a lifelong fascination of psychology, and a protected respect of the spiritual realm, dreams were a place he could test theory, cure phobia, and seek any gratification lacking in the flesh.
The sad fact that he grew to be an insomniac troubled him constantly. To be awake for four days was the cruel punchline, to the sad joke of his persona. Longing to be free in slumber, but stuck on this dirty, flaccid plane of being. Bound by other mans ideas of gravity, love and law. His brain would wind so tight, until it would unspool, incoherent thoughts, half finished projects. The longer you're awake, the less you accomplish, this is a raw truth he had come to learn all to well.
"I want to kill myself"
Said the fifteen year old boys subconscious. "I want to die as slowly, and painfully as possible."
Patience, you're almost there.

Life.

Is on a collision course, and yet headed nowhere. I've let everything I cherish go, and cling to false hopes and emptiness.
Seems I'd at least enjoy oblivion, but no, it's hell.

I awoke

Awoke to this world of noise. Machines, chatter, the world has grown loud, humans and their pets, noise.
May I return to realm of sleep soon? I wish a speedy venture back to slumberland.
Who is actually asleep? The drones that carry out their tasks, repitition and mediocrity at best? 16 hours of pain, just to enter a world they have no understanding of for a third of their life. What is heaven and hell? When this flesh tires, we return to our other reality. Those that repeat the same mistakes, and let their subconscious control them suffer the whims of their own fate. Those that choose to be awake, even when asleep, we are blessed with that skill in the nether, the after, the astral. We control our world, we understand this collective idea of reality is nothing more than vibrations of matter, but to live while asleep is more rewarding than this world.
I wish a hasten my return, to the world of nemo, no longer little, he's a king under there, watching over our slumber. Over 100 years old now, though age in slumber matters little.
I awoke, to this world of noise.

A fathers wish.

As I carve the thirty-second notch in this thing you call a life, I'm reminded of the only thing that keeps me going. They should be with me right now, but the mental illness still wanders these halls at night, something I cannot subject my children to. Her illness can't effect them, it does enough damage to the rest of us.
How will they see me years from now? How will they remember their father?
The failure I feel like? Or will I manage to give them at least one thing to respect?
I love them both so much, I hope they know that. Even as my last name is erased from history, I hope they keep a small piece of me in their hearts.
Traces of my presence can be felt, I hope, in the hearts if those that have actually known me. Fragments of me are left behind in what I've chosen to share with the world. This all sounds very sad, but you're just reading it wrong. I wear suach a grin when I manage to leave this prison of a house, you'll only see me wear a smile.... When you see me.

It is

Today marks the annual celebratory practice of the recognition that I was indeed squirted out of my mothers vagina. Some humm-diggity years later I have one failed marriage, a bad back, and several piercings to mark my path on this mortal tether. Like me more now? Yeah, me either.

If only they understood

It's hard to explain to anyone how my life works. I guess I started thinking about this when I saw someone at the store yesterday that doesn't like me anymore, but we used to be good friends. I started to try and remember why we weren't friends anymore, then realized it wasn't worth drudging up old memories.
I am going through a lot of hardships right now, and still trying to be positive and accomplish what I've set out to do.
Mental disorders hault life, stunt the spiritual growth of an individual, even if it's not their mental health issue. I deal with it everyday, between my own problems, and mental health problems of others in the house, it seems I don't get to live a "normal" life.
Today was supposed to be epic, huge plans... But I'm watching it unravel. I can tell how the day will end. I won't project it in that direction, I'll fight to keep it enjoyable for others, but on the inside I'll be hurting.
Because of household issues I don't even know if I'll get my kids next week, that breaks pretty much what was left of my heart.

25 lucid dreams and the illness that creeps in.

Last night and this morning I enjoyed the most lucidity I've had in a long time. My dreams were vivid and long lasting. I had time to meditate, fly, manipulate gravity, morph my world. In the first dream I used my favorite cue, my tattoos, to remind me I was dreaming, then for fun I made all the ink run down to my fingertips and seperate from my skin, then I manipulated the ink in the air.
In some of the dreams I was nude, but no one reacted oddly because they realized they were dream characters. In one I was running on the beach and felt the sand, built a sandcastle just because the reality of it felt amazing. I ran to the water and remembered dream water doesn't require holding breath, so I walked along the ocean floor examining and manipulating the various inhabitants.
I used a new technique, upon waking from a lucid dream, it can be difficult to fall back asleep, and harder still to remain lucid. I used a technique similar to self hypnosis, counting and becoming lighter, until I was floating in my bed, the transistion back into dream was perfect, as soon as I was floating I knew I was asleep.

I've returned to the stage, Saturday marked my first official live show with unto the black, and my first stage show in 2 years(other than hooks). It's great to get back up there, I'm sore and tired, and tommorow I take hooks. This is a major part of my life that was missing.

A familiar illness fills the halls of this home, she's letting herself slip again. My kids are to come for spring break, this may be difficult.