In her dreams she could do anything. She could walk through walls, doors, and fly. But there was something that held her back, it was the light. The light seen when she was trapped in reality that pulled her out of her body; it was the same light that sent her back; God. In visions she saw him as a giant. He was a tall man who took her by the hand, and led her up a stairway. He said that she was his child and his only child. He revealed to her a planet that he called his gem hidden in a space far away from all the other planets inhabited by beings. You see, Andromeda was fighting a war; the animal-beings were the first, they were too powerful. They had immortality, and science, and they wanted to mold man and make him in their image; then power their spaceship.
First, Jupiter’s moon would enter the orbit of Earth and cover her in black clouds of oblivion. The man with the ball-cap led Sophie down the path through autumn. She woke from a depressing nightmare to the sound of birds and was in the jungle. This is the time before man; the voice said. He then showed her the path between worlds. The one before the parting of horizon, before the battle of voices. He showed her the space station on the moon and the american flag; laying flat. For there was no gravity and no death. “This was supposed to be heaven” Enoch said. She woke again kneeling in the dome. The airships flew overhead sending sounds into the walls of the prison; these were not the harps of angels; but men without faith. The apostate monks immortalized in facilities. Power and light. And she wanted to unplug the machine but with it would go the stories, and so would the consciousness of humanity. So how did she save them? She had to write a better ending in the book of life. There was a dark angel on the cross, and she sent it back to its source. When men and women had fits and convulsions in her presence, as if they had awoken to some immaterial control.
But the shaking would finally subside, and the wars would end. The moon was no more. The space station massive, the characters: imposing blur. Why did nothing inspire her? Maybe it was the endless infinite space, beautiful and pure, that was too perfect. Hope seemed so grand when impossible. Would we save ourselves, the world? Would we wake up from our fantasies to dreaming impossible story endings? Nothing would ever end. It was beautiful to pretend. She pressed the keys to her chest. Blinking never seemed so easy.
They built a wall between us and the future was scattered like sun specks before the war that began with a man who hated flying. Her mother always had those letters because no one seemed to understand--that her voices could move mountains, could stop them dying. She was close to death. she was erratic and manic, and spiraling down. Something had to be done to bring her back, but their lack of understanding merely pushed her back to the ground.
She was drowning. Her wings were losing their shine. She was not divine. The nurses gave her pills that melted in her mouth, that made her dizzy and disheveled and to be forgotten about. After all the torture of losing her wings had terrified her enough to keep believing. She has faith in the foundation of disorder. Sparks eternally bursting within the distant suns of an opposite universe. A puzzle to solve a world over.
Red across the sky, they remarked that it was all a foreign delusion. But to her it was an brutal intrusion. The next day, she forgot how to fly anymore. She was tired of being bullied; it was all a conspiracy for more. She had been testing her limits, she had been trying to overcome this fatigue of awareness, this impending apocalypse.
She was trying to evolve. She had no idea why she even existed, waking up with a lack of recollection within her fragile heart that failed to melt the endless snowflakes that fell upon her thin apparition. The student who had been sent to get her, and seemed paralyzed with fear, as if mocking her. Rumors spread but the girl never found out how she came to such a terrifying episode, only theories about her broken wings.
Her parents locked her away. She slept in constant terror, staring up at the mirrors. Questioning herself, and her sanity, wondering what her revenge would be for this assault on her reality. She looked up to him as he stood over her begging her to comply with the snakes. She was the resistance. She would survive. Dreams and memories that are now a fantasy, all that appears likened to a dream, may become mere essences of our only reality--If you can find the key you will succeed at claiming your self from the endless loops of time to beat the odds and rise into the skies like an immortal butterfly.
My memory lived in an alcoholic sea, with weeds that towered over me in a world that was a colorful blur of possibilities. I wanted to know reasons for things that kept happening. She dreamed of rainbows under a unicorn poster border torn war scored world. They made up stories of marrying princes when they were too young.
I was not good enough. I had to feel an incredible apathy for the needs of the industry; always calling, and coming to me. They say that visions will set you free, but who are they to judge what I want to see? I’m the one they judged crazy between white machines and lazy. I find it difficult to write without adding abstraction. When I am depressed, I just write in metaphors because I find reality too painful to direct. My life is slowly expiring into nothingness. I can’t stomach food because of how people look at me. My eyes are often dry but I can’t even force a tear. I’m willingly giving him my soul. Tired of the re-run of actors in reality; I think it’s a mystery worth solving, and worth evolving.
Like I think about how GMO’s in our food tastes like poison. Or that Google really was monitoring us with their satellites, and how I knew before everyone else (who called me crazy) that Russia was building an army and plotting to attack, the Psiops, the FEMA camps, people talking on youtube about the ELF in the airwaves. When going to DC and those people on the side handed out flyers about CIA mind control, or the oppression of Yoga in China. Thinking of Steve Jobs, and the people flinging themselves from the windows into the streets below.
Some of it is accurate, but some of it is unexplained. You can’t verify anything subjective without a willing observer. They didn’t see the apparitions, they didn’t notice the differences in the two portraits, but I did. One had a castle, and one had an empty sky. Reality itself changes, and everyone causally agrees, but some people just can’t comply with the logic of the blind. I never saw the movie, I didn’t need anyone to tell me what’s been happening. I read it in their eyes. I see the archetype of the scene and read the signs and symbols which tell a story.
The one thing I wanted was not to be right. I just wanted to understand. I wanted to change everything and everyone. I got tired of changing myself for them.
The secrets kill you in the end. They turn you bitter, turn you mad. As everyone just lines up in single file, gets their daily dose of medicine. I was put in the institution for what I saw. I ripped the world off the walls. I saved myself at last to watch them fall. All the jigsaw pieces are falling into place.
a million little stars against a canopy, a woman with flowing brown hair, pressing a finger to her lips, faith is like the wintergreen, angry darkness, a violent tenderness, rain
Her skin was a display. Red hair fell over her creamy paper skin thickly dotted with freckles and sin, tattooed across her body. She was hopelessly unaffected by their failing embraces. Each touch burning their holes into her spine, making her tremble like she was insane. The knots on the belt found her neck too tight, and the children slept unaffected that night. The song has no effect on their sleeping.
Intoxicated by the effects of mothers weeping. They would wind the babies tight to the daylight, and in the dark mothers whispering white and soft, like salt. Freedom raining so gently over the spaces affected by the stars falling madly dreaming of elephants drunk on the lovely songs heard after in evergreen everything. They’ll reign from those pyramidical ships, forget the impossible truth fighting the evil chancres of doom. Blow me a kiss forever let go , let love save itself and affect the chemicals.
Though terrors turn our poets still,
Our words will be eternally real.
Predict the terrible events,
For their balladeers to lament.
From this there comes one mediation,
The shaken walls justice, awoken.
Save our freedom, that fitful dream,
Keep us harbored neath’ her wings.
On land the abalone will shine,
To suffer shell without a shrine;
The fire within that shines so bright,
To tread the mire without fright.
The heroes now had ushered in,
A hopeful directive, if elected,
Unified in a popular distinction
We saw the universe unite,
To set the pace for a new fight,
And melody continued to sing.
Alex learned the truth six minutes before the world ended. At the center of possibilities colliding with alternative anti-gravity waves. Over-all the theme she had protested was invested in by the millennial youth of America. She noticed, they all believed her too, that the power was in the hands of the one with infinite potential. Her name was destiny. She rode the waves of the future. Cities floated above and she woke up from dreams where the frozen earth was mined of life, and counting backwards can hypnotize you into an alternate time-dimension. In three years, the avatars reveal, a new possible wheel and one chance to answer the question. It began as a dream that she woke up from about a con man on a plane before the end of the world.
Phil was a a twenty-seven year old engineering student on a plane; he was reading conspiracies as the wings flew over Washington. Suddenly the flight attendant came on the speakerphone announcing that the President would be making an important speech in his third year in office. This was the final speech. Adam was gone. It was 11:32 and each seat on the jet had a small thin tv screen where a suddenly frightened and disheveled man with tears in his eyes, with whitish gray hair, is tied to an armchair before a blue curtain. “I am not a traitor,” the President says into the microphone. He taps the mic.
Then he clears his throat. “America is under nuclear attack from North Korea” there are muffled sounds then the signl is interrupted and fades out, and than a gasp from the flight crew as it fades back in with another view of the final United States President, only he’s sweating now and the curtain is white. Suddenly he screams, “Cut the cameras! Cut the cameras!” You hear a banging from a distance and shots ring out. “He’s been hit!” there’s a woman yelling, but not before the man is shown on his knees, with his hands behind back before the view goes black.
People started screaming, and panic was everywhere. Jason was sitting on a bench outside the University; staring into the bright sky, why did the comet keep coming like fire, scorching his dreams with smoke? He drew the comet, in his sketch book, Andromeda stared at him from an other time, on another plane one to a future with a bright Jupiter colors. In that single moment when the tears fell, an angel told him he had found God, and he remembered his sister as the ray of red light was sent through the sky, and the future was forgotten.
The bridge to the future and families forgotten by tomorrow, and Jeremy who scribbled about a different war between Spring and Snow, between savior and sinner, paper and plastic. They wore their agenda in inaudible music and direction for no cause; armed in engineered suspician. Kneeling before the altar of the Phoenix; it was between him and the sky, that he found himself at peace. Destiny showed a parallel universe through the mercury and aluminum laden skies. The people saw reflecting in the massive mirrors to the past, a mystery even China might never understand, Europe’s secret plan. She made love to Eric between a haze of marijuana smoke and opium dreams as the house of cards fell into chaos.
Jasper knew; and that was how he met the young woman who changed his future and showed him an answer or a possible escape. The cards were stacked, chaos was the personified cartoon enigma trapped in a matrix of illusive fantasies. Her father never lied about being in Amnesia, he simply did not realize it was so, and then we found the other place on the other-side of the gate, when God was straight and Sarah knew her face was fate, when she changed places. But lest we forget the Wasteland of the world...where atoms of enemies were conditioned to accept and embrace their gifts of insight.
She woke up hearing her name in a melody; she found her destiny in a stack of cards reversed, back to back with a rehearsed divinity and a cross-roads. Agenda 3 was on is way. “Do you remember?” Philip asked. The man told her to count backwards, and she would forget the reactor in the liberty statue and the bridge between here and the hereafter. Someone from the future would cross over and change history so it didn’t repeat the same lackluster apocalypse with the power to alter events, the power to change time, the power to move mountains the power of prophets, melt glaciers and end wars.
Someone would remember the future that everyone forgot. Jasper woke up in the Treatment Center, a day after the world ended or at least it seemed like it. His memory had been erased in the land of Amnesia, only the constant epileptic seizures of terror reminded him of the dark tortured reality of the past, and the realm of a serene reality, of an ultimate destruction before he had created the dream that woke the world, and turned the immortal Phoenix back to the spring of a possible destiny.
There is hope still, in the night of the final hour. The midnight bell rings, another angel falls from a cloud and ends up spinning circles in a ferry. Do you believe in miracles or false memories, or can you dictate reality and tell the difference between me and this endless white paint. I thought of dead crows coming to life, under a crooked horizon the wolf moon glaring down on me. I am not your saint.
They said to kneel and repent. So came the expositions, and renditions of apparition.
The soul dreams to wake you from an endless mirage of awesome realities; echoing bright symphonies through the darkest nights; yet she cannot be awoken until her words are at last spoken by anyone who also once hoped and dreamed, like me, to wake the soul and then be free.
I watched him trace her perfect figure with his fingers, tracing the shadows between where her spirit lingered, wiping away all her criminal tears; I was his Salem whore under ivory snow so bright, he was a dissolution of evidence stacked up against me. It was not right.
She’s been set up by cupid, the I’m with stupid t-shirt smirking like my lips on his finger tips. Running show, running them down the runway, as they walk on relay, watch your every move May. All I want is pay day not a gray day or a rainbow that’s drained and maintained of all her infinite faith. Timothy’s lover died from a tea poisoned with mandrake. I miss my three cats and dog, and I’m tired of feeling alone.
I had sex between the pines and alcoholic breath, and always boxes of random notes from blocks following dots back to the house of leaves. My mother was a killer in the night, her eyes turned to zero’s and heroes who came to save her dreams from harsh beliefs.
(Her past is an acrylic blur under splatters of beauty and light he looks beyond. He never says he loves her with real lips, he kisses roses and she is in love with the smell of dew drops and long trips. The church bell is ringing in a new order, they file into line, dying world. Spinning leather like Irish peddlers in a realm of suicide.
The poetic beauty of birth a child full of tin, sliced thin between the roots and crust. A poet turns into dust. Agenda signs off to a corporate monopoly, a shared address, undressed, and depressed for no reason, I guess. The world was a bitter cruel, a curiosity, a pinwheel of magic held by a man strapped to an explosion with gold teeth and carpets leading to infinite halls in plastic hotels with plastered ceilings and hopeless feelings. We turn their stories into Hollywood reels when we can’t get to sleep at night.
I fell in love with myself while you caught sharks in the ocean, and jaded, so faded and warped out from the seasons of secret meetings. The constant fall, the endless plume of dark oblivion coughed out of the pipe. As real as the crooked captors, ready to gamble the game and win nothing over in the end. Let’s play a game of pretend.
While they scream. They tried to testify to a grand jury of mercenaries, and then went to sleep in a star so bright it was invisible, sometimes I feel like I’m still on that pirate ship wishing I was free and letting everything that keeps me here let me go and be invincible. Nothing else to do now but make better geographies of our histories, pretend we’re the Kings and Priestesses of the past. Roam where we were last. Kiss Kitty good night.
Sometimes I feel like a hypocrite. I could’ve done more. I have been praying to a divinity in my mind; elevated and devalued over certain matters, transfixed by an opportunity. My hands tracing pieces of a puzzle, as if I could arrange all the shapes and make a tower; show my paper then fly a paper plane into it and shatter people’s dreams.
Mom used to think we were all one and she was possessed by a Mona Lisa so we don’t lock our doors anymore, we’re quiet without sound. The sun is bright. The moon is smiling at me on the cloud. They made us hate each other half between the walls of the institution, I had dreams of the doctors poisoning him with chemicals that attacked him.
I made some magical compromises with a destiny unrelated; the trinity was just repeated mantras in my head until she started praying to the voices in her head and I sat in the bedroom in silence, praying he’d stop yelling about credit checks and be quiet; start a revolution and instead we’re trapped and stuck with riots. Critics can’t understand.
The Breakfast Club dissident youth were the leaders; now we watch the moon smiling at us because we love God and friends; have children to take care of dead ends to avoid before the bends, see a dark swallow; just like they tried to commit me to a Cold War apocalypse or direction that was unreasonable. One mad night I sat on the roof of a Church’ Am I just a mechanical animal in a screen?
I followed the crooked orange signs toward every missing link dripped in ink until I couldn’t think as every conspiracy was so bright and clear. It was shining like the savant like dictatorship minds you breed for shit like this. It became overwhelming, I almost became obsessed. I had to build a wall between me and Mephistopheles.
I watched the politicians parading around the circus dizzy with lipstick smears prostituting youth for the alien beams. So if anyone could find the way I could...but the game became entertaining. Then I watched you falter your way through as if you’d been dreaming of army corps. in your sleep.
People said you’re just a creep. You said you wanted to be yourself. Just let me be myself....and you disappeared. The moment reality inside changed and I realized I was a part of you too. How do we change the things we do? Am I a Prophet too?
I had a dream in his basement that I walked into the ministry; I saw a meeting in a secret room. The blue screen beeping of the sleeping awakened ; all designed for war, war and telephone line dreams and weather on shores of a backwards mission bell subliminal revolt. Am I to look up from MTV with depraved eyes, seeking what is right or true?
A warm space under your blanket of butterflies. I was a time traveling window through your eyes. Now you want me back. The sky is turning white between the eyes of heretics. Can you dance through the rain without an umbrella electronic rebel without a microphone? You’re not alone, your voice is the sky your wet like a drone; keep on moving the numbers like our mountains can’t feel us crumble as we tumble down the rabbit hole. Go march on infinitely...numbers and machinery.
I rattle the chains, but no she’s just a piece of the video tape you wiped or erased, just wanted to forget or can never really face. Stay alert, be safe, can never be too brave. When you watch the time travelers in motion, it can be pretty sweet. She’s glowing like gravity but knows exactly where to take a seat. She’s no coward, she’s got the sun behind her shining forever. They can blow out and then remember September, but the world is eternal if you let her be. Lightning strikes the powerlines and scorches the world with fire and rage go back home where you should be.
We could do so much better. They could be better we can do the things you dreamed was left there with your mind trapped behind screwing up in the past while making faces at paper dolls straw men trump canned them all for the wall Pink Floyd singing salt shaker too much salt on the dark side family in furry hats flying chrome planes to the skies forever past limits pushing fitness hotter a fit bit Gold wrist watch my wrist flick it you have the right one to hit it lit fake diamonds are worth a million a fashion warring mistake and for exploring explosions they cant take in my emotions.
I sometimes try to serve them on the cruise ship only their way far off songs in distant futures a single word to express my feelings when my black heart is broken again the notes on the mirror most don’t understand my inks made of me a white witch in disguise who wears emerald eyes and dies all the time it was a guess for better or worse we made wiser choices finding love in small spaces under stars that shined like imaginative ideas I had and I love those stupid kisses left in the rain.
They used to tell me not to smile. They said in my head that you were special once. But I didn’t believe them. Then everyone kept saying I thought I was special, and I wished I knew them. I couldn’t look back; I told her that she didn’t remember when. I used to think I could see through time when I was drunk and high, sitting on a bench in the middle of nowhere, I told him that I was the sky and I wasn’t there then. I saw a broken frame, I pretended that my visions were revelations of a secret world, one beyond their cartoon delirium. I started painting myself into corners. I saw the ghost of aborted children in the stone house on the hill.
And my uncle who was left for dead under a brilliant sun. I didn’t believe he had died. The birds sounded mechanical, and the beams of light artificial. I spoke to lonely people, always lonely people, scared of my powers. My search for infinity in the fields of Ohio, next to crosses and Bibles and ghosts of rapists who haunt us in our sleep. I fell in love with every downward spiraling disaster, and in the end my love started to turn me into a monster. I called him toward me, and he danced around me as the magicians from under the floor started to possess us. They used to know epiphanies, and destiny, and I used to be capable of creating possibilities.
But now I can’t. I can’t do anything. I don’t even know who I am supposed to be.
Lisa had been visiting the cabin secretly every day in the woods. Her husband noted her comings and goings with mild concern, but figured he’d let her be this time and that she needed her space. In her spare time she scribbled in notebooks, jotting down her dreams and hopes for her children. How she felt, hopelessly, day by day drawing ever to the truth of dawn’s light--wondering if she would ever be heard or understood as more than a woman caught between the polarities of time. The two partners had met in engineering at Cambridge, and bonded through their love of exploration and the unknown. Yet, there were forces at work that meant a bigger plan and in time they married and had two children, while Lisa began her quest for spiritual salvation and to understand the world in its grandest mysteries.
Her husband found her dead on the the day the two of them were scheduled with the therapist to discuss claiming custody over their children. He found her hanging by a noose in a tree way back in the forest on their land. The husband hadn’t known that she had been making the ladder, but heard the hammer pounding off in the distance thinking she was working on the cabin. The cops had been searching everywhere for her. The husband ran screaming from the body, as officers told him not to come near the body and yelled to go straight back to the house. It had been almost two months since his wife committed suicide, when he found the coin she had lost thousands of miles from their residence. He told a girl about the angel coin that he found on the freshly swept wood floor. It had come over one thousand miles from where it had been lost, and it had belonged to his late wife.
The girl was having the hardest week of her life, everything just seemed to blur into one terrifying nightmare. For many weeks she struggled with the truth, that she could explain to no one what she saw and knew. She understood the darkness, but did they? It’s hard to explain how it feels when suddenly everyone turns against you, and there’s no way or reason to explain it. Not to mention this man in Missouri was sending her cryptic emails he received and top secret information about UFO’s and mind control.
A bunch of school children walked up to where she sat on a bench drinking her coffee. Giggling and saying they were on a scavenger hunt for someone, they asked her what her name was. She refused to tell them, and she wondered if those kids had found her social security card and I.D. It had been missing since the night before when she filled up her gas tank. The paranoia hit her full force. She saw the room of students trying to raffle off her identity. She walked up to them and said, “I’m on a scavenger hunt as well.” She was all she had left, well that and the adderal someone had traded to her.
The weather had been changing rapidly for the past two and a half weeks. Everywhere she looked the sky would illuminate and streaks of lightning fall to the ground. She knew where the first bolt of lightning would strike, as she sat on the porch looking at the power lines against the clouds. It went straight down into the ground, and then rain poured so hard that she missed her concert. The girl was trying to stop being careless and childish, not to lash out at the strange coincidences and be brave enough to look for the real signs. To listen to her intuition, to her soul, and not get freaked out by cryptic emails or text messages from the grave.
The nightmares went away for at least one year after the man who resembled her attacker had gone away, or at least stopped existing in her eyes. It had all come together almost as if strung up on some horrid Shakespearean play. First, she picked up this winchester pocket-knife on the ground, and then she meets this tall man who admires it and the knife and him end up going missing. Then she gets a call that he’s dead but she swears he’s back in town. The ominous drug lord or vampire take your pick. She had a dream about him, surrounding by lightning bolts. But everywhere she goes, the nightmare she had haunts her still. Normal people call this paranoia, but what about the dreams that came true?
She has struggled with premonitions, and they typically do not fail to underline the threats she has come head to head with often. The image of the man with the knife haunted her, as if some terrible curse was laid upon her. The best way to defeat an enemy, is to believe he is your friend.
Everything has withered, dried up, & become a void of dispersion. The hatred, the anger, the force of his mind or the dark ink scribbles that I can’t simply muster anymore. The beauty of the rain drops or the bitterest downpour, soaking me to the core with vapid discontent. No drug could satiate nor satisfy the barren volume which sits within me. My thoughts skim through fleeting moments of what was before and the urgent sense of sanity, which could never have claimed my mind. I feel broken like a violin; voicing her song to no one but the creaking floorboards. If I could only summon the Lords of the universe to sweep me away from the numbing chill of depression. If I could dip a brush into India Ink and smear my portrait across the infinite canvas that has become my life--to be born again in the wild thunderous storm of madness.
Instead, I remain listless as the fog mows over the evening sky, an intrepid traveler of clouds. Meaninglessly I conjure words to realms which are too far from this lake of disarray. The world spins and twists itself betwixt bands of oblivion, but we know better.
A blur of watercolors descends upon this oceanic view of the neither-nor woman. I see a bright room lit by an undesirable opaqueness, where the listless fallen are nursed back to life. I pray to Heaven and his convoy of immortals, though I never am sure if he has heard. The voices have all gone to sleep, have been banished to never-land. Once a child of innocent insanity, now slipping past the moon as the shadows dance upon her in a circle of understanding.
She watches clouds gathering droplets of rain from her eyes. She knows it is because there is something wrong with it. Unsure if she’s angry or relieved, the woman goes and sits on the porch like she had for so long. Staring out into the beautiful green and blue, her sobs release as she pleads with the Lord for forgiveness from her ignorance. They buy Maggie flowers on Sunday, purple ones that look like daisies. That night their children dream of blood pouring from the sky. Angry voices leap at them from the shadows.
How can she begin again? Like before, after the cleansing had left her mind barren and her skin cold to the touch. Would it be wrong to suspect father’s accusations? A lying, stealing sorrow forms like a dark cloud drifting across the horizon. Her mothers sobs are heard from the room below her; he’s cursing Satan who dances around twisting anything he can touch. How strange that she had to lose touch with everything she once loved so dearly. Now the words mean nothing. A mother with secrets. Where was the shining spark that kept her alive whether it drove her to madness or not?
People are susceptible to lies because they cannot accept harsh truths, the same goes with lying. This is how a wealthy man becomes a poor man over night. When he looked out from his big house, did he ignore the flowers? When he thought to his two children and his crazy wife, did he feel loathing? Did he not feel any sense of pride or joy? It’s not fair, said the daughter, to blame me for hating your life. Just because you hate your life, doesn’t mean I have to destroy the life that is inside of me. You have everything in your hands because you own the land. The dollar bill is more cruel than a pill to wash away the memories.
It’s not that she wanted the child, it was that she had no choice but to give her the world back.
“Do not be deceived, God is not mocked; for whatever a man sows, that he will also reap. For he who sows to his flesh will of the flesh reap corruption, but he who sows to the Spirit will of the Spirit reap everlasting life.”
It’s autumn, and all the oranges and yellows of the sun have fallen. I hold your hand because I can’t walk down the street. I am unable to move. Flashbacks permeate my brain; I fear that I’m going insane for good this time. I see memories, I relive a million of these theories. I wash down alcohol, pepsi, and story endings. I drift in and out of clothes and Zen. I am working up a tolerance to this world. I’m gaining influence over the matrix. I’m breaking down the walls of reality; and I am falling every time I find myself alone. When will love be centerfold?
I drum my hands upon the cage of resistance. If only it were true. I smashed one thousand theories over a broken piano, screaming, thinking about you. I washed her hair and she fell asleep in my eyes. I can’t get him out of my mind. But he is only a lover of the things I hide. Inside of all these houses and rooms, they close in on each other. Every empty vein is begging for a mouth to feed. I begin to unveil the possibility that I do not crave what I need. I have fooled myself, how vain of me! I go into another realm, zone in zone out. I dream of escape, and unending insanity. Love made me insane. Does no one love me?
‘How do you know I’m mad?’ said Alice.
’You must be,” said the Cat. ’or you wouldn’t have come here.” Lewis Carroll
Those voices beckoned her to shrill loudly, chaotically, beneath the evanescent sky. Voices, those terrifying taunting sounds, those identities and with her face came a new persona every day of the year. Her madness was unmatchable to the stars who poked their eyes lifelessly out every night, to see what the world was up to. Maybe Jesus Christ himself heard voices, or maybe he could heal her of them—someday, one day. He’d dip her into that holy water and absolve her of the sins that left her selfless, selfish, confusing. She’d crumble into his arms.
The man of the household kicked the dog, he has just been promoted and now goes to work three times a week instead of one. He had no time to address his cancer, or the dog, or the woman with the cast watching videotapes and dreaming of other lives. Now and then she would stop, and then she’d speak in hisses and whispers. This was not always my mother. Once, not that long ago, she fought against war and its assassins. She did her time in her jail cell, barred in between white walls and hell with nothing left to sell.
They taunted her, the guards, and shook her freedom away. She came home, glowing, but tired. She never protested war again. She felt it was useless, like she hadn’t been heard. Now she speaks to ghosts who listen in third person to the woman she longed to become.
I have also heard voices, the voices of angels. And the first time, they were there screaming at the world to let me out from my confined state, where they sanitized me of sanity, and stripped me of my reason. When I was there had pushed the trap doors and told them all I was well. Dear Doctor, is this really psychosis? Have I remembered clearly your false prognosis? Am I that invisible to the mirrors the important doctors to see every broken lie.
Who would peer into my psyche, and justify this malady of panaceas which would never cure, only dull the senses. Perfect and justifiable behavior. And the doctor, who wouldn’t cure your failing memories, only correct any errors in perception. But they haven’t killed the memories, for I wrote the truth on the wall of justice. I am sane, after-all, only living in a deteriorating schizophrenic world. One of my own design, coerced to remake it mine. It’s a world I can retreat to, now, that I am safe.
One where dreams are reality, but reality isn’t really even there. One with cotton candy clouds and a premonitions that come true too often to keep dreaming.
White blood cells, anemia, dementia, lost dogs lost minds lost friends. A pattern in the sky. A voice whispering on the wind, a colorful picture book that is too bright to call anything. I am schizophrenic. I am schizophrenic. I am schizophrenic. So I dull my hues to a perfect combination of blue and purple and yellow. I refrain from remembering, I stop myself from questioning, from asking anything. And I cry silently for the abused animal I have become.
When I was seventeen, my mom lied to get me sent to the psych ward. I remember the intake nurse who turned to mother and asked how my behavior was at home. My mother lied a little too easily, and I just stared wide-eyed in shock. I mean ever since I was old enough to conceptualize, I’d be worrying about whether mom was going to live or die because, this time she overdosed on her pills. I recall sitting at the dinner table and asking her where the marks on her wrists came from, and she gave me a dysphoric grin and said she crashed her bike into a window. Of course how would I know the difference between truth or lie.
I remember being eight, watching from across the room while my mom complained of being blackmailed by agents. She was shaking and looked as though she was going mad. “Just look! Look at the letters! Even the handwriting is different,” she said in a frightful voice, because the other letter was written in cursive. Maybe there are more inconsistencies. It was either interrogation, willful protest, blackmail, madness, or something else. The day mom was put into the hospital, my grandfather called to tell Dad that he’d found her, and she had walked to a bus station. Now it’s slashed wrists, not a bike accident, though I never saw mom attempt suicide.
Then as the dosage increased, so did her madness. Suddenly there was a secret history to everything. Suddenly she couldn’t decide what was real, or wasn’t, suddenly she lost her mind. I’d shake her gently but she refused to move from the queen sized bed. She’s simply snore all day, her spark gone. She battled demons and madness, but I hate God for doing this. I hate God for allowing this. I kind of hate myself for loving her too. She broke down and there’s no way I can bring her back to life. I can’t wake her up she’s still asleep. She never caught the bus at the bottom of the hill to our house, where her father found her. And I still have no proof of her claims about forced electroshock.
That’s why I don’t hate my mom for lying. I don’t think she knows any better. I began having auditory hallucinations in the psych ward. I believe they were sent to get me out of there. My mind in its trapped inexpressible state. If, however, I tried to ever express myself I was degraded for my circular reasoning. I got brave one day and told everyone I was fine and that I didn’t have schizophrenia. I got up and walked straight to the doors, “I’m leaving” and then bounced back as reality hit. The doors were locked obviously. I had no way to get out. One month before my eighteenth birthday.
Every time my parents would send me to the psych ward, they cleaned my bedroom. They never would do that when I was home. This is really funny too, the voices I heard whispered about domestication, white blood cells, anemia, dementia. I’d always have weird visions of messed up old people lost and shaking in this kind of place. That’s how it made me feel. I still have premonitions. I still know.
You can either live with regret and pain from what happened to you, fully. Or you can buy the lie that you’re broken. I reprogrammed myself to forget. Tranquilizers, seizure medications, anything to knock the pain out. I bought the lie that I was broken. I am like the million broken pieces of all the beautiful things I have thrown away. But the truth is, I didn’t throw this world away it abandoned me and I destroyed myself. Well, I haven’t died yet. I almost thought I was going to die last night when the navigator got me stranded on a mountain, and no one would give me directions. I followed my instincts and made it home.
I have good instincts, but I typically ignore them because I hate being a nun. I really don’t know why so many bad things happened this week. It just seemed like the world was conspiring against me. What are the chances. The world is full of chance. I just hope I haven’t missed my chance at existence because it often feels like I don’t. If I was smart, I tell myself...my dad blames me for my bipolar schizophrenia. I blame him for putting me in that box in the first place, and he blames me.
Because Sometimes when I close my eyes, I can still hear my mother screaming. I envision all these scary things, like a dimly lit room with a woman in restraints being zapped with electricity. She doesn’t remember anything. Now that the once real smile on her face has melted like plastic and has been replaced with bleach, what does one do but cherish the memory of all the radical mothers in America. I remember her how she was once before this madness, she was full of bright-eyed sunlight and open to things that no one else was aware of. As a child I colored rainbows that laughed and together we vanished into the sunrise.
She hands me a tearful letter, “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,”
I believed in her more than she realized, and her dreams were called borderline by the man in spectacles who wanted to believe in nothing. I turned eight when I heard them say she tried to catch a bus, but ended up with slashed wrists and a diagnosis of bipolar schizophrenia. No one ever told me she tried to run away. My memory, has it betrayed me? I have never forgotten that phone call, “she’s at a bus station. We found her.” I can believe in more than her suicide attempt. I don’t even know why I can’t forget her standing there in tears saying that she was afraid of the writing in the envelope and my father saying that she was being paranoid, practically begging her to calm down. She was sick. She was sick. She is sick. Please don’t take my sunshine away.
So what happens when a rainbow turns upside down and the edges twist, and what happens when the flower in your hand turns into a dream that you misunderstand? What happens when it’s too much to be silent in prayer? I remember how much she believed in me, and how everything she believed in caved eventually. Maybe we are the same as them, but they just don’t see. They don’t know how to embrace the deepest recesses...what it means to be human and be free.
She had the passion to resist every bullet until the one that pierced right through to the core, this evil poison infecting her with disillusionment . She crossed the barred off line and got arrested for protesting a white man’s war. They painted the padded walls off-white and we were screaming until you just stop caring. The doctor uses his syringe to steal every soul and cell as we dance with our demons. When all she wanted was to teach peace to the children across the world, who knew only a bloody war.
Sometimes I want to smash through that locked door of hers and tell her that I’m still here. can’t she love me too? Sometimes I just wish she understood what it means to know that you are loved. But it’s not her fault, she never caught that bus to freedom and I was whisked into a dreamland. I will imagine she’s still real, because she is here still. The mind never really goes anywhere—you can only hold your breath and count to ten. We can only close our eyes until they open again.
“They grope in darkness with no light; he makes them stagger like drunkards.”
Dear Doctor, There should be no argument: it is essential to have an accurate diagnosis; after all without scrutiny and judgement you can’t call diagnosing a science at all. My diagnosis should reflect my treatment in such a way that I am confident I have received factual and appropriate representation, and I don’t think I have. It has gotten to the point where I dread coming into the office because nothing productive seems to come of it--I’ve begun to feel like I am the ultimate cadaver on display for dissection; & actually being heard would be a miracle.
Diagnoses are indeed generalizations which have been assigned to a particular set of symptoms for documentation purposes. So is it possible that in conversations I am being misunderstood and your judgements have been based solely upon those misunderstandings and poor value judgments? Since when did vocalizing my own conviction become a symptom of human broken-ness, mania, madness, or Lexapro? I would like to remind you that you do not have authority over my personal life, nor is it your place to assume that what I say is not true unless you have a reason to. What’s this like disco for doctors?
Will it ever be possible to express how frustrating it is being labelled with such grossly inaccurate terms that have not applied to me, even by DSM standards? Is there any way I can show you that I have never identified with either Bipolar disorder OR Schizophrenia? That having the two seemingly magically stitched together was this cadaver’s ultimate demise. Given the false representation I’ve encountered by those in the field of psychiatry, I’m at the point where I no longer see its point.
I have done plenty of the research that I need to arrive at my own conclusions on a diagnosis that would have fit my own description. I’m on the autism spectrum (my issues are attention and self-expression) and yes it does matter. However, I am frustrated by the lack of assessment and have grown so tired of being poked and prodded at. It’s wasting my time (no amount of exaggeration on anyone’s part can express that this has been my ultimate symptom).
If there was any clear resolution to this, it was totally lost in that stack of papers of yours; so while the ones I wrote myself are missing, only your incredible thoughts and meanderings made it on that paper. Psychiatry is not prophecy, so stop trying to divine meaning from bullshit please. Some lives are incredibly dull, but that’s no excuse for throwing shit all over the wall and blaming me for it. BTW that was a generalization. You know what I mean?
PS. Well at least I have the integrity to speak my mind where others would fall silent. Maybe caring should have been my brain disease, after-all who really gives a damn about value or progress anymore to the point they’d actually be honest with themselves. So while one day it’s crazy and one day it’s moody most days it’s you whose talking about issues. My issue is that I was taught these things were a good thing, and to glorify them to the betterment of society.
Dan 2:22 (NIV) He reveals deep and hidden things; he knows what lies in darkness, and light dwells with him.
1 Cor 4:5b (Phi) He will bring into the light of day all that at present is hidden in darkness, and he will expose the secret motives of men’s hearts.
I’ve wondered at times what lord had freed me
who’d sheltered me in his paradoxical country
whilst love starved them of sanity
her sadness, now an eternal eulogy
I woke up Godless and cold
burnt of meaning, suffering story yet to be told
galloping from hell on a midnight stallion
when without understanding of the ones I left behind
I will not leave you in this war
, I’m no hero
I’ll look terror in the eyes
and never blink, never surrender
I will create a new world to remember
The Bible is to me a metaphor of evolution between mankind being a savage and warring to enlightened, as in peace-keeping. Enlightenment to me is simple: it is the epiphany or realization that as a species the only way we can survive is to work collectively and not murder, pillage, steal or engage in reckless behaviors. That to me is the message of the Bible I take as a Christian.
Now, prophecy to me...that’s a difficult one. I would say it takes guts and bravery to remark that you are a prophet for believing that you should spread either the word of God or meaning to humanity in your own way. A prophet is someone who intercedes for humanity, whether through mysticism (receiving spiritual guidance how-ever you do) or even completely non-religious intentions that are separate from an established religion. There is nothing wrong with claiming yourself as a prophet who spreads a message.
What merits a prophet is how much humanity benefits from your “prophecy” which could mean an intuitive divine message or peace activism or simply civil disobedience to a force that is doing something corrupt and you know in your heart it is. If more people followed their hearts and not their egos or judgements, we’d be living in a more peaceful and progressive, as in progressing, world where our human achievements could also coincide with the natural world around us. We can’t keep killing the earth and each other. We can’t devour the rainforests, oil will not last forever, oceans will someday dry up if we keep polluting them, the ice caps will melt and it doesn’t look like we can even stop that at this point.
I love the idea of someone standing up for themselves, and if it means calling themselves a prophet than that takes the courage of a prophet in the first place. But the true test of a prophet is that they are tested, and strengthened, hardened, and courageous enough to say no in the face of what is wrong. A true prophet doesn’t need a voice in their head, they know without having to be told. As I see it, there is a difference between a premonition and simply knowing. I could choose to be a mystic but I’d rather live the righteous life where I follow the word of God. God is the knowable in all that is around us, and to me. Our creator was never gender specific.
God is a voice within and far reaching beyond people. Perhaps God knows us better than we do. After all, if there were a creator he must be the one who set the stage for our awakening, our ascension, our realization of the importance of the very simple thing we have discarded. ourselves. our planet. Perhaps God could be seen in a blade of grass? Perhaps God could be seen on a falling drop of rain? Perhaps the unknowable is not unreachable, and once you reach within to what you know--realizing that what you know is all you have, then you know true faith in a higher meaning to this planet.
Wonderment, imagination, creativity---are these hallmarks of madness or hallmarks of a world that is repressing the beautiful presence which once carried us through a harsh winter storm.
I believe to know the true prophet from the false, would be to understand the Bible and the meaning of many religious virtues across the world. They mean something.
Bipolar Disorder is just a facet of our cultural repression of the idea of swimming against the current. But I had to swim upstream one time when I was tossed from a raft along the river, trust me. Sometimes you just have to swim against the current or else you’ll be carried downstream where you might drown. If we don’t swim, believe, build, and grow up--we will drown one by one regardless of how screwed up the chemicals in our brains have become.
If you think Bipolar and Schizophrenia are just random, think again. I think mental disorders arise from an imbalance in the holistic nature of mankind. We are not robots, we are not machines meant to toil at sweatshops etc. Anyways, I’ve gone off on a tangent about too many things. I just wanted to say that this is very touching this woman stood up and said this. I wish I had been there. It’s so rare or has been for awhile to see someone whose that brave. And lastly, true bravery is in doing what is right. Revenge has never set the world right, nor proven anything but misery. Like these kids who beat up a guy for ripping them off.
I was once thought to have schizophrenia, but through God I balanced myself. In fact, I do not mind the label of bipolar disorder because I do know my own struggles, but the truest and clearest perceptions don’t even come from manic states. Truly religious experiences have to be felt and known from within and out. Mania only inspires us to leap outside the box and look around for answers.
Mat 10:26-27 (NIV) “There is nothing concealed that will not be
disclosed, or hidden that will not be made known. What I tell you in
the dark, speak in the daylight; what is whispered in your ear,
proclaim from the housetops.”
Dan 12:3 (NIV) Those who are wise will shine like the brightness of the
heavens, and those who lead many to righteousness, like the stars
forever and ever.
“the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders
across the stars.” Jack Kerouac
The word would make anyone shudder. Schizophrenia, an illness that causes a normal person to lose touch with reality. Schizophrenia is more common than diabetes, and affects over 2.2 million percent of the population. It is a heart-breaking, and life-stealing mental disease. There are no cultural markers for schizophrenia. In my opinion, poverty only adds to the lack of treatment available to a person with schizophrenia.
There have been several great movies focused on schizophrenia survivors. “A Beautiful Mind” is one such movie. It portrays the adult life of John Nash, a brilliant mathemetician who was afflicted with schizophrenia. “The Soloist” is another great movie which is also a true story based on Nathaniel Ayers, a great violinist who lost a potentially bright future to this cruel disease of the mind.
I also have schizophrenia, and I can tell you first-hand it is not possible to overcome it alone. Some still believe people can “pull themselves up by the boot-straps” and carry on, but it is near impossible with medication and therapy. My first experiences were earlier than most people’s. I began having symptoms at the age of thirteen and onwards. It began to appear in a subtle way to everyone else, but me. I was very withdrawn into stories and poetry.
I can understand, in ways, how the theory of dopamine overload corresponds to symptoms of schizophrenia. For instance, in the past I remember writing a 40,000 word story that made very little sense to a rational thinking person. When, at the time, it seemed even the insignificant details made a world of sense to me. This also can happen in a drug-induced state, through drugs. We can fill in the places where others can’t sometimes, and it takes some time to really develop communication that many can relate to.
Sometimes heightened levels are good for the brain and body. Sometimes they can throw you overboard into a sea of confusing waves. Some of the most brilliant intellectuals, artists, and creative thinkers suffered from forms of schizophrenia. Schizophrenia is a broad term, and no one symptom is exactly the same.
I think this is because of how every human DNA is unique, and I believe schizophrenia has to do with the makeup of the individual. We as a whole should accept that everyone has a unique genetic disposition, and our dispositions are what make us who we are in a lot of respects. Vincent Van Gogh cut his ear off, but painted some really amazing and surreal images that invoke a sense of being within the painting for me.
John Nash was a brilliant Mathematician, but also suffered from paranoid delusions. Sylvia Plath was probably manic depressive, but her poetry was ironic and beautiful for her time. I have a personal theory that some prophets would also be classified by modern days as suffering from a mental illness, because many of them then/now are rebels. They resisted authorities, spoke to invisible forces they deemed Gods, Spirits, Energies...do these energies exist solely within the mind? It takes a brave person, a mad person, to find out.
There is some great beauty, I have found, with schizophrenia. It makes it easier to soak up information when you have recovered to a stable state. Sometimes the intuitive feelings are not far off, but too much of anything can turn into a bad thing. There is also the question, what is actually a normal human brain state? I’m not saying when you aren’t ill, but asking what actually constitutes normal for the human brain?
I’ve had some moments of great clarity, and I was a high functioning teenager before the symptoms set in. I had early onset of the disorder, which means that I lost some of my teenage years to battling the disorder. I also am beginning to think that schizophrenia is a broad and complex system that factors in the: psychological, chemical, environmental/cultural, physical, and genetic.
The genes play an important role in the development, and also it shouldn’t be discounted, the possibility that when we grow up if we are subjected to harsh conditions that may also be factored in. I was on a vegetarian diet for a year before the symptoms started, and also had stressed myself a lot through physical activity before the insomnia, and eventual breakdown into psychosis. I can’t say these were factors or the cause, which is also frustrating.
I do believe there will be progress made for those suffering from the mental disorder, and we all know it’s vital to find better medications and solutions to the problems we face with mental illnesses. My schizophrenia did cause paranoia; I was frantic and frightened, thinking bombs would blow us up and had very visual ideas.
I could picture things (like realist paintings) in my mind’s eye very clearly, but on a different level than others could comprehend. The difference between me and the most severe cases of schizophrenia is that I have memories and insight, and even through a crisis I was pretty aware of what was going on. It made things harder because I was also aware of how I was being stigmatized by people who didn’t have compassion or knowledge of the suffering I was enduring.
Yet It has become apparent that I do think differently than a lot of other people, and in some ways it’s a blessing. I like being unique. My genes are not a curse, but there are some flaws with them. That’s not really a curse but something that could also be considered a true gift. I’m happy to be alive, and I’ve had a beautiful experience with the world. Especially as a child. When my schizophrenia was only a unique imagination and over-abundance of love.
I began talking in full sentences at six months, and at seven years old I was already contemplating my place in the world. In some ways, I was an adult or an old soul even at eight years old. People with schizophrenia, if they were like me, grow up too fast and then have to adjust to a world that has a lot of rules.
We have to learn to adapt. Sometimes because of our innocence and love, we forget that there are consequences and we hold onto our stubborn virtues, but some of those virtues are what made the world free. Our brains have evolved over time, through DNA, and we have adapted to be the best we can be. But we have the chance to become better, and hopefully there will be some way to isolate the problem and find a solution.
I don’t think necessarily that we are the problem, or even the way our brains were built...because I function fine in the world with the aid of a single medication. The brain is unique, a tool that should be honored. Just because we produce more dopamine, doesn’t mean we aren’t capable of being completely fully functioning humans or adults in modern society as I have proven.
I have recovered and have maintained recovery for the past five years. And sometimes, I do see many of us objectified for being considered abnormal. And because of this very abnormality, I stand in solidarity with all those who have the diagnosis of schizophrenia. Because human life is a gift, no matter the way we’re put together, we’re all gifted in great ways.
We should honor our gifts, not deny them. We should work to help ourselves and help each other.562 reads 6 comments
Lately I’ve been interested in schizophrenic artists beause their art is inspirational. The art of people diagnosed with schizophrenia often has a distinct surreal quality, sharpness, and feeling of separation. I’ve realized that I can’t paint in such a way, and it would require a lot more practice. My art is more moody and impressionist, which may depict a different state of being or presence. But the paintings shouldn’t label or define the artist’s mental state in such a grossly defined mannar. We have to take into account what the artist is thinking, feeling, or is driven by to paint in such a way. People with schizophrenia often feel lonely. Those who can depict this feeling of isolation and lonliness should be congratulated for being able to put such profound work into that darkness.
I sometimes wonder if schizophrenia helps people produce these images better. When I was in a manic or psychotic state I was able to visualize paintings so vividly in my mind’s eye before I took medication to dull my senses and this was to them a way of making me better, but to me was a false sense of realism. There are still many unresolved problems, and it seems to me that instead of medication curing my symptoms they have only been further burdened within my subconcious because they tend to arise in the dream state. I have incredibly fantastical dreams and often frightening nightmares that make me feel my personality has been split apart by a fragmented sense of identity in my world.
When I paint, I have too many ideas and yet I am not happy enough to keep my paintings intact. I constantly mix the colors and eventually they end up being a blur. This is my depression seeping through. But recently I ruined an abstract because it wasn’t what I wanted it to be, and I ended up with blue flowers that I was happy with. I have the creative drive, just not the instruction or motivation to complete the task. This is a symptom of the same dilemma of my own schizophrenia or bipolar. I have the intuition and depth to defeat it, but there are no tasks that have been placed before me which actually challenged me to think rationally. I had to teach myself to overcome schizophrenia. I had to play my own therapist, and pretentiously they might want to analyze my behavior but in the end, it was my own activities that worked better than any medication. I also used a lot of energy and visualization to bring myself out of the depths of depression and madness (loss of identity).
Often society reinforces this pattern of losing one’s identity.
I’ve been having lucid dreams more often lately, and recently had one where I was attacked again. This time I forced him away and he manifested as a man clothed sitting on my bed. It was frightening to put a face to this ominous trauma. I didn’t put the face to it, he manifested himself, as often secrets manifest to me. Or mysteries. I attain secret knowledge through dreams. I call it secret because I do not know the information otherwise and have no outside resource to attain it other than psychic information, or collective information. The universe speaks. This morning I heard speaking from outside for the first time in many months. It was not alarming to me. In fact I welcomed the change and ability to see what my subconscious lower mind was up to. Hidden mind. Veiled illuminated mind. It’s the thought beneath the thought or surface. Often it can be repressed and manifested outwardly as oppression or anger from others.
The unconscious forces of the mind of confusing, as often are mysterious symbols we can’t comprehend with little knowledge of the language. I’m learning the language. That’s also how I’m overcoming schizophrenia. Schizophrenia is a real issue, what causes it I’m not sure though. I do not think it has to do with chemicals. I think it has to do with insight into hidden areas in the brain unexplored and often leads to competition with society and its institutions of thought. If you knew something so absurd to everyone else, but knew it to be true and no one acknowledged it, that would drive you to fury and madness as well. But when those very people conspire to ridicule you and lock you up for those reasons, then it is corruption at the finest.
Dissidents are locked away for speaking their minds. Peaceful protesters in places like Egypt, China, Israel, Iran, etc. can be tortured and killed for believing something different than others. In China you can’t even speak about the communist rule or fear exile or persecution.
How is that any different than the way liberal minded radicals are treated like their crazy?
It happened in the 60s. It’s still going on. We had Mkultra, I dont know much about it. I do know there were LSD experiments and remote viewing experiments, and schizophrenics were lobotamized etc. so we wondered what silenced all the protests and who shot Kennedy and why John Nash invented Game Theory and was so brilliant, claimed to be inducted by the CIA, and suddenly he’s a schizophrenic. Or even Charlie Sheen, a 911 “truther” suddenly goes berzerkowitz. It’s not random enough. But then we have sudden media attention of crazed mass shooters who all seem like they were tripping on LSD, called schizophrenics when several only were Autistic or suffered PTSD. Most of them but one were proven to carry actual labels of schizophrenia.
So it seems like it is being done on purpose. But why would anyone do such a horrible thing on purpose? Like knock two towers down in a controlled demolition and create random false flag events with phony terrorists. Why? They have too much time on their hands. More than me.
But before all this happened the thought was in my mind, “I’m sure their gonna go after schizophrenics now”
Because schizophrenia is a powerful weapon of mass destruction in the hands of terrorists.
But anyways, there is a such thing a schizophrenia. It’s just too hard today to distinguish fact from fiction especially in the media.
My dad flipped out at me when I mentioned the U.S. and how they caused a ripple effect in the Middle East to gain control of the petro dollar. So there’s obviously a barrier between my father and I. Little brother is now big brother etc. There’s too much irony in it all, the story I wrote in 2001 was the summer before or after 911 when I took a cross country trip to California and I wrote about how the U.S. would invade other countries and become depedent on oil in an abstract sense. It started like this “and they prostrated themselves to billboards and worshipped madness in their prison for paradise”....no one liked it because it made them uncomfortable and they didn’t understand I was twelve years old and dished out a lot of criticism.
My mother was also a civil disobediant. She protested the WHINSEC or SOA, was interrogated by the FBI and wrote secret letters to activists. She struggles with mania and has for some time but just because she is doesn’t give me a reason to have to be one too. She began her descent after she was released from jail and never spoke of her experiences in there but her journals are online and you can tell she was stressed a lot.
I was put under extreme pressure to take medication when I was fifteen. It seemed I was singled out.
I was told their methods were to break me in order to comply. I was well for about 1 week and a half before I was told if I didn’t take a medication anti-psychotic that I wouldn’t be released and I was ok anyways.
The medication disintegrated my senses and identity, it caused a wave of depression of fogginess to sweep over me almost like witchcraft. It is not a natural means to get someone well.
Because our society is disconnected.
To be able to express the feelings of isolation is an amazing feat for any artist. In my manic states I had lots of beautiful paintings and it came naturally, now after years of taking pills, not so easy. But I can still write and much better than before when my symptoms rendered it impossible to write a logical sentence.
I don’t believe we were targeted, only pointing out the obvious reasons people can feel paranoid and a part of why my mother will never seek help.
Our society doesn’t allow help. Our society is disintegrated. Too many people have allowed themselves to become corrupt and careless.
No one cares enough and that’s how the people up top want you to be, not to question authority. Not to ask reasons why.
The voices I heard told me some stories, though I didn’t believe or dismiss them. There were a few of different frequencies. One was the thoughts I projected to an imagined intelligence agency which I hacked with my brain and was reading my EMF signals. The others were from Mercury and told me Earth is so horrible and that there was no truth here, and no justice, and that I shouldn’t have come here. Speaking to my soul, and it told me it had two moons except their not moons their called Obelisks and then he said we are being invaded by monsters or demons beneath the earth. I would call them demons, but who was here first I wonder? Perhaps its revenge they seek, or perhaps it’s because we live in a world united by its polarities and that good and evil co-exist so easily in this world, that its hard to distinguish one from another.
The problem is we see our world through such colored lenses, and fail to notice reality is much larger. What of those lucid dreams so realistic that they can’t be distinguished from waking ones?
I’m not dreaming while awake, I woke up to the real dream....
I hear their fingers start tapping on the piano keys. I fall asleep to the sound of raindrops and bell chimes. I wish I could stop believing, but I’m cursed to be stubborn until my last breath. I see the world swallow up the sun. I watch them fall through their eyes, and I don’t know why I’m staring. I want to move mountains, and I want to paint over all those zig zags in the sky. Sometimes I want to win, sometimes I just want to die. I follow their eyes as the sky bleeds ink tears, the monsters in the shadows--are the ghosts of broken hearts. This taunted mind has chained me to the wall.
If I weren’t so kind, I’d have lost the brightness that claimed me. If I was free, I’d know what I could control. If I was a lunatic for believing I was well, than is it insane to think I am whole still? If I fell into the traps, wouldn’t I look so small? If I was queen of the universe, than it might still have had a soul. I’ve given up to breaking through this control. If I knew how to beat the system--If I knew how to end the pain, I’d know how to stop fearing this world, that lies deep within a dream. This is what it means to be afraid because others can’t accept what wakes up while their asleep.