crazy experience.

I have(or had) this really interesting friend named S. He talks about off the wall things, he tries to burst clouds with his mind, he shoots energy out of his fingers at you to attempt to make you do small things like close your hand into a fist, and succeeds.

One day he was confiding in me about a terrible experience that had all of his friends on guard about him. Him and some friends all took some lsd at an apartment. He only had one hit and a reasonably high tolerance, being a seasoned pro at psychedelic substances.
What happened was he started feeling taken over by something, something in his stomach trying to force its way out was the way he described it. He blacked out and came to some hours later to all of his friends completely terrified of him. A female friend of his that he describes as very tough was scared of him. They described the evening to him and said he started going crazy, trying to hurt and attack everyone there. One of his friends had to hit him over the head with a pool ball. They all had to hold him down. He woke up having zero recollection of the night's events.

He was in an extremely dark place after all of this happened, thinking he may have lost his friends and essentially saying he feels a dark energy clinging to him ever since.

I am very open to any possibility of energies, spirits, and what have you. Pretty much I think anything is possible, yet I make no assumptions.

A few nights later I was at a house with a group of friends and a really friendly dog that was playing with everyone there. There was a knock on the door and S came in, and the dog immediately started growling and barking, seeming torn between attacking S and running away from him. The dog was so distraught that everyone in the room froze, aware of the tension and awkwardness in the room. S kneeled down to talk to the dog saying "it's me Enzo, come on, you know me, what's wrong buddy?"

What the hell was that?

a post

Sometimes I feel like I just need to write. Oftentimes, I don't know why or what it is that needs to be expressed. The beauty is, it always seems to find its own way out if I can get myself to start typing. It's as if I'm coaxing words out of some hidden recess within me. I moved somewhere new 3 months ago. I am now settling into a routine which will include a couple of overnight shifts a week for a little while longer. Something is eerie about the early morning hours. It's a lonely feeling but not necessarily a bad one.
There are some people that cross my mind a lot. I want to ask them question after question but something keeps me from doing this. I don't know what I'm afraid of.
Life is strange, I will be 25 before I know it and I still often forget that this is it. I have found things that reminded me of that that I tried to hold onto but my interest is something that has always had an unpredictable ebb and flow. My mind is a multi-faceted sieve and I don't always seem to have a choice in what stays or goes.

purge 1

I've heard writers give those who want to write the advice that they should "write what they know". Well I know a lot about drug addiction and the incredibly varied emotional states it can bring (Often with nauseating suddenness). When I'm having trouble falling asleep at night, it's because I get stuck on memories that keep recurring. This doesn't happen every night but it's happened often enough to the point of knowing I should probably exorcise these memories somehow. Growing up in the age of widely available internet(even to 11 year old kids such as I was when I first started using it regularly), I find that I'm able to let my thoughts flow more freely in type form rather than with pen and paper.

Lately I go to shows or to hang out with friends or play music with them or watch them play music and sometimes I'll notice the dilated pupils, the gyrating jaws, the inability to finish a sentence without getting too excited about a new idea and starting another one in the middle. Sometimes watching this action happen fills me with an intense yet usually brief longing. More and more, I find myself being appalled at the fact that I ever looked that way, perhaps jealous of the high they were feeling but not at all envious of the empty feeling that would follow the day after... but I suspect that the feeling of longing will always be there, if only just a little bit. Yeah, I used to display extremely addictive behavior with mdma. From the first few times I ever tried it(letting the fact that I couldn't find any more soon after ruin my entire night and mood), to the extreme some 5+ years later of dishing it out of baggies to my friends and always doing most of it myself. I did at least 10 points in one night more than a couple times.

The lowest points were always when everyone else had come down and gone to bed and I found myself with the sun coming up, the inability to unclench my muscles, sometimes still full on in the throes of the high, sometimes taking more if I had any left, until it was completely gone. If I was lucky I'd have some kind of sedative pill to knock me out so I wouldn't have the spend the next 24 hours tossing and turning in bed, sweating, muscles twitching and mind going 123094 miles a minute, just letting the after effects run their course so I could enjoy normal human functions like eating and sleeping. Sometimes I'd just have to wait it out. On those long lonnnnnnng nights or mornings, I'd ask myself why why why I kept poisoning my body like this, I'd feel so sorry for my poor body who had done nothing but try to exist and function normally while my ungrateful self just kept dumping chemicals into it.

I went to see a show with my boyfriend during this same time period. It was when we still both wanted to recreationally use that stuff sometimes. We got a couple capsules each and of course mine were gone quicker. Sometimes when this would happen I'd get him to share the rest of his, sometimes I'd immediately set my mind to getting drunk. Most of the time I'd immediately start scheming on how to get my hands on more. This time, while the music was going I texted a friend who lived up the block and sold the stuff, I was thinking I could slip out of the bar, run to his house to get more and be back before Luke could know the difference. After I had texted the friend and he had OKed me coming by, I noticed I had forgotten my wallet at home(probably the fault of my earlier-in-the-night-and-more-sensible-self who didn't want me to blow all my money on more drugs just as I was trying to do) but decided to run there anyway and see if he'd front it to me. He did of course but as I was saying goodbye my phone started ringing and it was Luke. He called over and over and I just ran back, he was already in the parking lot waiting and knew exactly what I had gone to do. He was yelling that it's never enough for me, I always need more, and I was petulant, knowing he was right and slightly disturbed by it but more overwhelmingly unconcerned since I had my hand on the baggie in my pocket. The world could have been falling apart around me and if I had some of that stuff or my favorite pills in my pocket I could still feel a sense of serenity and only be vaguely annoyed at what I thought of as his dramatic and square-ish reactions. If I was out of the stuff however, I had no choice but to hear what he was saying with full force and absolutely hate myself. It forced me back to earth.
We had a huge fight that night, one of the many that tore me in two and made me feel as if I had to choose between my freedom and identity(so intertwined with my drug use that I felt a part of or all of me would die if I stopped) and my relationship. He drove me back to his place where my car was and I got in it and started driving home. He followed.  I lied and said that I threw the bag out the window, when in reality I had swallowed the whole thing at once. We got back to my place and he was so stress-riddled and exhausted he went to fall asleep in the back room. I, on the other hand had just ingested half a G of(what I hoped was mostly) molly and was feeling social as hell. I invited a few friends over. We painted a collaborative piece and I got to know these people(one of which would become an awesome friend). Of course I outlasted them and they started getting tired so I was left to be awake in my living room. Luke got up and went home, I rode out my high as long as I could, started a painting, read some Alan Watts, and took some Xanax at about 9am so I could pass out. This memory blends together with so many other similar ones like it, one variation was me meeting one of my neighbor ladies and buying a cocktail of pills to help me pass out and feel less bad when I woke up, one variation is me going to Luke's soon after getting up and spending the come down in his bed in the dark basement while he went record shopping and enjoyed the sunshine.
Talking about these things makes me feel ill but lately sometimes I feel extremely unhappy and the more of this I get out of my system, the more I feel that I am releasing some guilt that has been acting on me like a slow poison. I haven't been able to figure out what my sense of unease has been coming from but that may be playing a part. This is one in hundreds of memories that make me feel sick to my stomach and I already feel lighter.

12-11-13

The crunch of snow on the morning walk to work is a metronome
along with cross thrusting lessons fraught with laughter
The first recognition of waking awareness is an anxious jolt
The first notable sensation is slight nausea
I'm seeking distraction distraction distraction
Getting through the day so I can get through the afternoon
while needing the bravery necessary to sit patiently

I am 100 different people during the span of any given day
I brandish cynical intellectualism one moment
and embrace pseudo scientific New Age ideals the next
I carry crystals to align my chakras
and laugh at the naive simplistic views of religiosity

One second celebrating the exhilarating freedom
and the next fearing the big scary unknown
I am a giant box of contradictions
who does not believe in shapes

My ideologies are interchangeable
my moods quite unstable
I've fought an uphill battle against demons
yet thrice a day want to invite them back into open arms

What face should I wear today?
What belief system do I want to adopt?
What would my future self be most glad about?
I don't want to be an ant.

Going and sounding crazy are no longer fears
so this rabbit hole will be an endless expedition

On the cusp of metamorphosis.

I remember laying in bed when I was in my early to mid teens, my legs aching inexplicably. My mom explained to me that these were growing pains. I'm pretty tall so I had these a lot and they hurt like a bitch. There was nothing to do but lay there and endure.

I'm now realizing a parallel between those literal, physical pains, and the pain of loss. As I've gotten older I've started to realize that transformation and change are almost always uncomfortable. You invest yourself in whatever your current life is and you get comfortable with it. You mistake it for your SELF and what makes up YOU. And then one by one all of your attachments are inevitably ripped from you, or they disintegrate, or you make the choice to give them up, and lo and behold, you still exist.

Those things were not you. That job was not you, those habits were not you, that partnership that you felt so permanently ingrained in... not you. Ripping things that have been growing into you, out, is going to fucking hurt. It's like pulling out an impacted wisdom tooth, very much a part of your being but hurting too bad to keep in place.

Remember all of those times that you thought you'd die from the pain, whether emotional or physical? Well, there you sit! We're all stronger than we feel at any given moment. Trees battered by storms grow deeper roots.

Every feeling passes. Even the feeling of the wind being knocked out of your lungs every time you think a person's name, which has become so familiar over the past months or more. This is a universal, ubiquitous, and omnipresent experience, as much a part of being human as the need to sleep. Suffering inevitably follows attachment and we will keep learning these lessons until we realize that we own nothing, not even our bodies.

Weekend musings

There's a pulsing vibration filling up my entire body, if it were visible it would be luminous. It exists over communication with type and in person the volume's turned way up, and I am a live wire.
Personal space bubbles overlapping, I'm breathing in sparks, I am buzzing with energy, I could combust at any moment. In fact it's a wonder to me that I don't.
Being in the same mental space is all it takes, though sharing physical vicinity makes it almost too intense, like sitting a little too close to a camp fire and starting to feel the burn. This vibe is similar to but way beyond sexual excitement, though the two often overlap.

I'd like to use all of these blessed cyber platforms to communicate but I'd prefer real voices complete with body language, and I'd accept telepathy. Yes I believe telepathy is possible, and that it was happening before our interactions even existed. I believe we are bridging a continuum of time space here and interlocking souls regardless of whether they exist.
This connection is bigger than me. I am tapping into something ineffable and I don't completely believe I'm even a necessary component. I am a point of consciousness lighting up on the map at the same time as you, we are burning bright.
Intellect fails in understanding this. It's serious but the most laughable thing in the world. It's the most ease filled difficult situation, fraught with paradoxes yet insanely logical. I doubt motives all around including mine.
Something so powerful seems to beg careful scrutiny but at the same time I want to trust the pulse, because it makes me feel alive.... like cliff jumping into almost painfully cold water, like turning a corner too fast and almost flipping your vehicle, like challenging fate only to have it lash out at you and remind you what's up. Is something that turns up the volume on liveliness what should be trusted most? Ahhh natural highs.

Thoughts

Writing is exorcising demons. The nasty ones, and the nice ones too. Writing is purging your spirit of whatever filth or joy may be swirling around inside of it. Writing is catharsis, an inexplicable connection to something, a mode of expression both limited and limitless.

I read somewhere yesterday that in your head it's hard to tell what's going on but something about ink and paper brings out the truth. I find this to be startlingly true, though I prefer type since I can keep up with the flow of my thoughts much easier. You cannot allow yourself to lie when you dictate your own thoughts, and if you do it's difficult, it's painstaking, it feels wrong. It's not catharsis but fabrication and feels more like work than passion.

One could argue that fiction is fabrication but I don't believe that to be true. I think writers write to find out what they feel about something, factual or imaginary, and I think every character has a piece of the author within them.

There's "COPS" on in the lobby at my work and the remote's batteries died, so I'm being subjected to something terrible out of my control.

There's a woman(I struggle to call her this instead of "bitch") who comes into the bar my friends and I go to, and sits across the way from us, hating me. I've never met her, and looked up one night to see her giving me the most hate filled incredulous look I'd ever seen. It was truly striking, since this was the first time I'd ever laid eyes on her. I saw her again last night and she started adding snarky comments and eye rolling to the spiteful gazes, as if my very existence offends her at the deepest level. She wants so badly for me to feel badly, and she does not know anything about me other than what I look like. At first her attempts at inflicting pain worked a little bit, I was pissed, and puzzled. Now after seeing her a second time I try my best to laugh at this stupidity and I'm starting to succeed but it's just a reminder of how confusing life can be. How unnecessarily hateful people can be for no reason other than the fact that they are in pain, and do not like themselves. She cannot stand to be in her own skin. She goes out every 10 minutes to smoke cigarettes, I remember when I used to do that, it's a symptom of being constantly uncomfortable. Some people are truly impossible, nay, difficult to have compassion for. She sits there and looks so miserable, I won't let myself be infected with that misery.

Right now the woman that lives in the apartment complex across the street from the work desk I currently sit in is texting me and offering to bring me these pills that I am addicted to. I refuse to give in but regardless I will probably think about it for the rest of the day.

Right now my relationship is in a weird place, I'm unsure of whether it's going to work and that is an uncomfortable place to be, sorta like walking down a staircase in the dark and not knowing how many steps there are and whether you're going to trip and topple down. We get along fine but I still have a sense of something impending and I can't shake it.

The struggles never end, you just have to keep going.

These are the tests we undergo in maintaining our peace of mind. When we think we've found it something will come up to shake us up and make us doubt it. It is how we consciously decide to deal with things. Reacting out of habit is easy, consciousness takes work and it's a job I am going to undertake.