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I can write. But not out of this.

I can’t write my way out of this, I can’t persuade, or influence. I can’t distort the fact that nothing I’m doing will ever matter. I’m avoiding doing the things I would love to do, to just travel and write and learn new things, to get this sad excuse of an education, an empty diploma to pursue achievements I will also find are fleeting. I’m not learning anything here. I get to hear about the amazing feats of people who just did something, who pursued what they wanted, whilst doing nothing and experiencing nothing. Stop trying to tell me it’ll be worth it when I’m like 60. That all these pointless walk-arounds and tribulations we do are necessary, will lead to eventual happiness, maybe. It’s not even a guarantee!

Why can’t I just pursue happiness now? I’ve always been a cautious person, however impulsive I may think, and however defiant I may be to certain institutions, and I can see that perhaps the more cautious decision would be to pursue your interests now. Of course you need to fund your own experience, but once you make your own means, do what makes you happy. What makes me happy can’t be found here. I’m trying. I’m trying every second to believe that this great ‘life experience’ everyone supposedly should have isn’t a total scam.

But I keep fucking yo-yoing back to the fact that it is. Society is a machine that churns out products that can in turn pay pack the machine. People get their places as pegs, institutions as chunky gears, and our chase for happiness in these institutions, where by the way you won’t it find there, serves as the oil that keeps everything greased, slick, and running on time. People falls out of order and society’s machination falls apart. People go chasing their happiness in a way that doesn’t keep the gears running and then you’ve got a mess. That’s what I think.

It kind of pisses me off.

I just want to be happy.

I’m so torn between adhering firmly to society so I can be as successful as I can, and realizing success means nothing to me, and all I want, all I’ve ever wanted is to be happy.

I piss myself off. I hope you all go fuck yourselves tonight. Get out of this stupid system because as of now I’m stuck here.

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I can’t write like I used to, so I’m sorry. I used to feel like words were my everything. They were ropes, bonds, bands around my shoulder and chest that grappled me back down when flying was dangerous. They were moral backing, sharp glimmering silver knives in a verbal body that I could throw at the world. When I needed not to fly but to just ultimately prevail, when I needed to be sharp, supreme, and superior, those ropes bound to keep me safe propelled me into the sky. I was tethered and free, like some sort of twisted propaganda.

I feel like an open expanse, like a concave and rotting pumpkin, innards all exposed and vulnerable, but so disgusting no one would ever take advantage. This year took something away from me. I don’t what it is- curiosity, hope, fire, human connection? But I’ve grown distant and restless and filled with hatred, pain, worry, anxiety, fear, fright. I’ve grown full of fright and emptiness. I’ve learned that making something out of nothing is difficult when you don’t care, and that the opportunity to create nothing out of something is seized by an other worldly power that hates you and want to rip you apart and tear you down, that gets some sort of sick, sick, sick, enjoyment out of this, out of something that just hurts and hurts, and aches so bad the marrow of my bones screams out in pain. I can’t.

I used to have this gift for enrapturement. I would capture people to set them free. The same power that the words gave to me, I would give it to others. I loved speaking. I loved writing, I loved telling, exposing, believing, influencing. I can’t help but feel like everything I do now is a corruption, something everyone can easily sense. I feel like a faceless background character that moves constantly in the midst of something important but has no value to be included in writing or characterization. Now, I wonder all the time how people can talk so much. I have nothing to talk about that feels anything other than frail, fake, like plastic, like when you lick your own lipstick off by accident and it’s absolutely disgusting to taste.

People are put off by me, I know this. I don’t respond the way I’m supposed to. My morals are different. I am consistent. I think killing bugs makes you a terrible person. I also feel like we should do extreme things to create a better world. Maybe it's suppressing these urges, that would surely lead me to do something drastic, that causes me to feel as if I am forsaking myself.  I hate the world, the people of the world, and want to do nothing for it, but I love the world, and my essence cries out for me to act for it. Maybe it’s the effort to push everything away so I can live a simple, comfortable, long life, that causes me to feel anything but, wrapped in warm, soothing blankets of hardened, stiff, cold apathy.

If I had the opportunity between living the way I am now, living the way I wish to, by changing everything, or being subdued into a lucid dream for the rest of my life, I would with no doubt, choose the lucid dream. Maybe some moral law would cause me to in fact say no, but the painful realization is that I ultimately yearn for something else in this world that I can only find in a place that doesn’t exist.

I used to be hot all the time, like an overflowing, scalding cup of coffee, darkened swirling amber that invigorated. I’m cold now. Physically cold. All of the time. Buried under layers and layers, all I feel is the iced flesh I am. Dreams haven’t been an escape recently. I dream of old fears, or new fears, brought to wherever I am. I wake choking on fear, and with the most horrid strange feeling that the monster of all my dreams exists, and that it's watching me, with eyes the peer savagely, perversely, void of humanity, but filled with the worst reckonings of the universe, and everytime I turn my back it looks at the planes of my shoulders, the fragile slope of my spine, and sees into the cells of my body, and recognizes the cold and feels my skin and recognizes the distance. It craves the distance I have towards the world, the detachment, and that it’s drawn to that. It’s drawn to that and it feeds off it, and it inspires that, and thus forms a cyclical pattern that can only result in a total spiral to something absolutely horrendous and it makes me so terribly afraid. It makes me so fucking scared.

I want to escape but there’s nowhere to go. I’m painfully afraid of death and overly attached to being young forever.

Writing this, in my free time when no one is around, I feel like something is watching me again, like I’m doing something wrong for writing this, like I might never get to finish, like I’m sinning. My stomach is twisting, the sky is a haze today, nothings particularly bright or dark, but everything is a wash of gray and mist and constraint and chill today. It’s like its waiting, whether for something to start or end, close or open, but its patient. I am not, I am worried about what’s next. I don’t want to die.

Women are encouraged to be flighty and stupid, and needy. Men are encouraged to pretend like they have everything, including the answers, and speak the most limited bullshit with this emotion behind it like they have discovered the world. And then the girls coo and fawn, as if pretending they have not the capabilities to comprehend such a great failure as that idea. Now I am angry, which I originally treasured. It was the only thing I could use to get myself to care again, without caring enough for everything else I’ve been bottling to come pouring out. Anger is a distractor, a motivator, and invigorator. Now I just feel sick. And then when I drop again I’ll feel even more empty.  

Food is like sand to me. As pleasant as its taste it feels like nothing, quickly over once eaten, I seem to miss the point. Intimacy, relationships, I can’t do them. I feel like its so one-sided, like I’m not ever going to be able to feel towards them the way they do towards me, and I hate that type of lying. Academic accomplishment hurts because I am a prideful person who enjoys success but at the same time I understand that success in this absurd world means little to nothing in the long run, and that I should be doing something meaningful and fulfilling. But what is that?! I just want someone to tell me, but I know that they’d be wrong! I want to succeed and I also don’t! I want to abandon this whole meaningless charade of a system with its pointless barriers and struggling maze to reach a location I may find despicable. I am a body trapped in a system to which my mind has succeeded in leaving and isn’t that just the worst thing imaginable.

I want someone to tell me what to do, how to feel, how to think, to relieve the pressure of being free - maybe I’m too free, could that be the issue?-  but I abhor the idea of anyone telling me what to do, when I know they don’t truly understand, when they are less than in the ways that matter to me.

I want to enjoy conversation, relationships, achievements, stupid arbitrary things that everyone else does. But I feel like I have no voice, like I don’t have any of the words to say anything besides this, and most definitely not enough to do all of those so very human activities. Why have words forsaken me, where have they gone?

All I can ask is this:

Please come back

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A psychic midget that’s on the run is a small medium at large.

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R.I.P. Stan Lee (December 28, 1922 – November 12, 2018)

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Ruby Bridges was the first black child to desegregate the all-white William Frantz Elementary School in Louisiana during the New Orleans school desegregation crisis in 1960.

This movie made me cry, I was so heart broken by how Ruby Bridges was treated! She was only 6, but was so strong. She is a very brave girl and she did not care what the white folks called her.

People are simply disgusting to minimize people by skin color!

Ruby you might not think you’re a hero… But to other people you are! You are A HERO and you are A PERSON WHO MADE AMERICA CHANGE!

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I would love assistance in deciding on the final print. Which one do you prefer? The unedited image is at the bottom.

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A Modest Response to Responses on the Deprivation Principle

There is a problem when it comes to opportunity cost. It goes that people who have not ever existed should not be included under the deprivation principle, because they have never lost something, and while that makes sense when viewing the multitude of people that could have existed but were never conceived, it doesn’t originally seem to makes sense when applied using a different lens. If a nuclear blast would destroy humanity or environmental pollution would make it certain that in the future an entire generation would be lost, there is a very noticeable feeling of opportunity cost, of deprivation for them, but it contradicts with the principle that we do not mourn people who never existed because they never actually had an existence to be deprived of.

While close, I still believe that a comment made by a classmate, “We feel loss because of humanity is gone, and a new principle is needed for this”, to be off of the mark.

Specifically, I believe the problems lies in applying the deprivation principle here because  when thinking of that generation of humans, we stay within an individual cost mindset. When referring to an entire generation lost it is no longer an individual opportunity cost, it is a collective opportunity cost. A cultural cost, a species cost, a planetary cost, but not an individual.

Humankind is the result of millions of mutations and divergences and evolutions; and hence, it is a lifeform in its own right. So to halt that process of mutation and evolution and stop the potential for that species to continue to develop, there is a definite feeling and quantification of deprivation, of removing something that already had existence. In this way a collective group can fall under the same deprivation principle that individuals do

When thinking about the entire generation of loss, we feel loss on behalf of a generation that will never come into existence, and that appears to contradict with the principle that people who never existed should not garner feelings of cost. But this here isn’t a feeling of loss on behalf for each individual person who will never come into existence on the same scale with someone who existed and then died, but more so a collective loss for a species. A species that existed but now doesn’t or has been hurt by this. Many, like archaeologists, biologists, and environmentalists, experience this when thinking of species gone extinct. They existed in the past and now that they don’t there is a feeling of loss for what could have been a successful continuation of that collective group. We don’t mourn for species that never existed, and the species that will never exist, but those that existed and could have continued to exist and diverge but had that opportunity removed from them.

So, when the deprivation principle begins to contradict when referring to collective groups, simply alter its application from individuals to the specific collective instead as applying individual loss to a collective group is fundamentally problematic.