Why Am I Here?

Back again folks. I’ve been thinking about why I’m doing this. It originates from the show Californication (2007). It starred David Duchovny as Hank Moody, who played a blogger. I just liked the idea of a failed writer who had nothing else left to say speaking to the internet, in a public library, of all places. What does he write about? What comes out of his mind? What is there to say, about anything, that already hasn’t been said?

I’m getting bored of talking about recovery, addiction, and psychosis. I’m getting bored of everything. Nothing excites me anymore; I’m a failing mess. All I want to do is enjoy hedonism, via the usual empty ways. That means drugs and porn. I’m ever so bored of drugs and porn though.

Ever so bored, but still attracted to it. I suppose I always will be. I pray that the desire is removed from me. That’s one of my most popular prayers. I hate the way I am and I hate the things I do. My nature disturbs me. I hope I can change before it’s too late. As my boy Chico just said in a group: “I want to die sober.”

I don’t know who you are, and I don’t know why you’re reading this, or where you found it, or whatever, but I want to tell you that being me isn’t easy. It’s very difficult. I get beat up every time I turn around. There are dudes out there who want the very worst for me. They brought me into an awareness of gangstalking and remote neural monitoring and other devious goings on. But I prevail over it all, somehow, with the Most High Godly Creator of All Things. It’s tough to keep going, and it’s tough to keep hanging tough.

If I can keep going with an idea of beauty, beyond the physical form, then I’ll be happy with that. A polish girl on a nature retreat several years ago told me to never let go of the good stuff. Hold fast to which is good, the Bible says. I don’t mean to be corny or sentimental, like Ricky Gervais, who always ramps that teary stuff up in his shows, I’m just saying. No offence against him, I love it when the telly makes me cry. So far, I’ve never had the written word make me cry. Apart from the Bible.

I opened it one time and started crying straightaway. My tears made the words blend and bleed into each other. Underneath the smeary ink I could make out children’s images. They belonged to some of the first pictures my nephew ever drew for his mum. Strange, huh? I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I don’t know why I’m here.

The devil tells me I’m here to suffer, and nothing more. Would you believe a dark spirit, if nothing they ever told you didn’t align with that? Nah, I don’t either. I believe I’m destined for something that has nothing to do with suffering. Something, or someplace, placid and peaceful. That’s where I’m headed too. Plus you, hopefully x