The Psyche: An Ethereal Misery

The mind. What it controls. What is perceives. It is as if such a spirit is beyond human control, for I struggle in vain to even grasp an elementary understanding of such an incessant, monstrous artifact. Just no. Loads of negativity. Packaged into the core of all the past, the histories. Why must such a force be so omnipotent. Why must my attempt in its control result in self-obliteration beyond belief? But why? What if the world is a blanket of white drenched in animal bile and life is the tongue that licks it. The world is as static as the dark, even more so than a night sky, even more so than its limit. Perception is a cruel thing. Perspective is more cruel. Through all such years of witnessing, of observing, or the nervous attempting, both have existed, both have condemned me. Through no media am I to properly communicate such experiences, for it has been self-destructive in its violent force, slicing slivers of my inner self ever so gracefully, so gallantly. I am no person to croach such virulent thoughts, though it shall be my goal in this writing to dissect and perform a miserectomy.

A string. It brings decadence. Its stream of a line flows through the valleys, grazing the eccentricity in the air. It’s then gone. But it’s not gone. I know it is not gone. It is with me. I sense the joy. I sense exuberance, excitement, ecstatic tension. Spling. All its unorthodoxy revived, I struggle for a conservative middle-ground. Two splurges after. As boldly as I can, I embrace my thoughts and explode it inwards. I do sense a new ecstasy. I feel its elegance and brilliance shine through with utmost grandeur, yet so intricate. I breathe a sigh of relief at knowing my psyche. Logically it is the end. Though the impossible is almost never possible. I sulk in the isolated situ of my mind, for I feel increasingly unwelcome in the already cancerous, as one have said, reasoning partition. The light before my eyes fade. I seep deeper into my alternate self, not knowing and knowing at the same time. A shallow breath eases the symptoms, perhaps it even offers a spiritual refreshment, though it’s a two-fold battle, no, a two-fold onslaught of eternal warfare.

Perhaps. There is no solidarity. Such a light-feathered hypothesis with no real meaning. Yet the urge of its expression has won over me. I want many things. I think often. Though some thoughts bully others into their inevitable resignation. I do not feel like I have any control over these dominant thoughts. I return a value. It’s a string. Called unorthodoxy. Through two months a metamorphosis has took place which saw the sporadic, inconsistent, illogical, subversive shift from ebullience to introspection. Such a quality never thought possible manifested, blossomed, thrived, then violently, dramatically, and pathetically shriveled up into a ghastly waste. I cannot see an end to this delineation from societal expectations. I can see, though, a deadline for my long overdue alienation. I may, if I choose, submerge myself into my psyche and risk my past. Though, as pitiful as I have described it, the failure-choked, negative, lamentable past is certainly not worth noting.

Seesaw. A to and fro. Though it is beyond contemplation that such an indecent, juvenile hollowness of an emotionless tube is fixated to a singularity. There is no other possibility beyond the deathly dull rise and fall. I dream of two iron hammers, smashing a ethereal, balanced insult to society on both sides. Kaboom. That’s far below satisfactory. KABOOOOOM!@%$. Much better. Even though I am trapped in an enclave I am apparently happily trapped. If I feel such unorthodoxy is worthwhile of pursuit. If I have such vengeance against the institutionalized structure of my life and future. If my psyche is explosive enough to draft this dreadful writing, why don’t I simply resign?

Resignation. A tenebrous, powerful word.  In a sense, unorthodoxy spews from its boilers. Why must I incessantly devout my wondrous occasions to some devilish devotion? Is what I imagine its rewards to be, including the spiritual, so much more important than my soothing and crackling psyche? Does such persistence characterize my alternate conscience, the seemingly failing logical, now illogical, partition? Such seesaw motion it much like an irreproachable ideal, disastrous. Though I feel a sense of calm, why must I categorize such a decision as a resignation? It baffles me to imagine a darker world in which I lose my bearings. The fluorescent lights hum and hum and hum, to the brink of my sanity. I dream and hope and they are consequentially crushed, much like the grinding of stones under a hiker’s boot.

I must state that my expectations are high. Though the word usage, “high”, is unsatisfactory. They are meritorious and admirable, in their superficial sense. Down into its neglected basement we see its meager wooden foundation on which it rests in peril, perilously. I hold dear to the notion that to live, one must be in struggle. Perhaps it was a reaffirmation of the histories, the truths.

“To die is easy, but to live it is difficult.”

I danced around through numerous metaphors, I do not classify this writing as a success. Such truth cannot be conveyed with such simplicity through a piece of writing. Insecurities aside, the future is rather bleak. Perhaps I have inherited from my past the psyche I possess, the ineluctable future of sorts. I hammer down many textbooks as I imagined the seesaw. But to what use? None. Meaninglessness is perhaps the most meaningful of them all.

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