Power

I’ve been triggered by an atheist video. Some guy was on about suffering and evil and genocide. Can’t possibly be a God! I want to use on it.

Any whiff of hopelessness and I crave drugs to lead me back to hopelessness proper. There’s a certain desolation about a relapse that I know is unique to me.  I slip into the Seventh Circle, which is a specially reserved seat in Hell. I’ve been there for most of the last 12 years, so I’m used to it. Instead of everyone being my friend, they become my enemy. Today, I feel like the most powerful man in the world. If I use, I’ll feel like the most powerless. The stakes are that high.

You might, like me sometimes, equate power to materialistic wealth. If you asked me to pinpoint you towards true power, it would be likely that I’d guide you in the direction of oil tycoons and steel magnates. Bankers, and the like; Elon Musk, Donald Trump, and so forth. The voices in my head don’t necessarily agree. I call the collective noun for voices Katy, Katy the Hive-mind. They tell me that the internal monologue inside your head is power. How you talk to yourself. And visual imagery of the brain. That’s all there is to it. No more than that. I hate to agree with Katy, she can’t half be a right bitch sometimes, but I think I am beginning to.

I know nothing about anything, least of all power. Only what Katy tells me. But there is wisdom in acknowledging the limits of your knowledge. I know that much at least. I know that there is something powerful about walking into a room full of strangers, because when I’m strung out on a comedown I can’t even imagine doing something like that. At the moment, it wouldn’t pose a problem. That’s why I say that I feel like the most powerful man in the world, not just because I am talking to myself quite a lot and imagining pretty pictures in my third eye, but because I also feel capable of walking into that room. That’s all that power is.

I could have a suitcase with a million pounds in it, sat on my kitchen counter, but if I haven’t the confidence to go and spend it, then what is the point of it? It would be useless. Once that amphetamine begins to wear off, and my guilt and shame begin to register, and the demons crawl out from underneath the floorboards, then I’ve hardly the confidence to open my bedroom curtains or put out the bins or shower and dress, let alone carry a suitcase full of cash out in public. I’d be too paranoid to possess it, for one, and I wouldn’t know where to go to spend it. It would be a complete and utter joke. That’s what I think about money, in a way. It’s just stupid.

A mentality, on the other hand, is legitimately priceless. You can’t buy a new brain, free of unsoundness and maladjustment. Not even Mark Zuckerberg can afford it. And a new brain, a fresh mentality, is what is needed. Only God can grant it. And only the Devil can take it away.