Got This Got That

I’ve been getting followed around now for many years, by the same people. There’s been one bin-dipping vagabond in particular who is in the library where I do my blogging every single time I visit, sat there smugly, watching me from the corner of his eye. I’ve finally just gotten rid of the eyesore only to have another watchman take his place immediately. This ‘confronting’ the enemy isn’t going so well thus far. Once you start asking the question, “Are you following me?” you find yourself asking everyone and his dog the same thing. One day sooner or later they’ll be up for a tussle, if I can find one with any minerals, and I’ll be incarcerated for practising kung fu without consent.

I just want to get a few things straight in my life, before I bite the bullet and get done for murder.

I have a future. Now that I’m not drinking or smoking, I can realistically ruminate upon partaking in some exercise. This may take some time to set into motion, because usually, whenever I feel like getting active and running, I lie down in comfort until the feeling goes away. A future to me may mean only several more years of life extension, but if I were to carry on down that route of chain-smoking and necking lagers, I would only last at best several more months. I’d accepted my breathless, bloated fate many moons ago. Those poisons had a vicelike grip over my behaviours, I could not stop, first thing in the morning I would go the shop, I couldn’t imagine being without. Now, there are many ongoing dramas in my life, but self-assassination by harmful chemicals and corrosive fluids isn’t one of them. I will survive much longer now than I previously thought. Sans beer; sans fag.

I have love. Yes, despite wanting my organized stalkers crucified upside down along the high street, I still have love. I refuse to be embittered by hatred, like the cold-as-stone voices which abuse, molest and rape me without even momentary cease. I have high-vibrational compassion going on richly in my life, with empathy and peace. The ring of evildoers around me insist that they have love just because I do (if I had a mouldy butterfinger they’d want a piece of it), but they are lying about it, they are loveless and envious and jealous of my giftings. If I had only a single chipped marble to my name, then they would want to take it off me. They wouldn’t leave me with a pot to pee in. I am a big soppy pants when it comes to love, I wouldn’t dream of ever wanting to snatch it off anybody.

I have joy. Christ, do I ever stop laughing at the silly immature daft perpetrators surrounding me? Instead of being frightful I find them demented. I simply laugh at anything now. Even dark stuff. As long as I am giggling, that is the main thing. Because the Devil hates jokes. Do you think there is laughter in Hell? You’d be wrong if you did. I should know, because I live above it. There’s plenty of whining, but no guffawing. I. cannot. Stop. Laughing. At them.

I am powerful. This is big-headed of me to admit. I don’t mean the deceitful power of supernatural influence, where dead souls serve power over love, but I mean the self-inferred determining power which comes from putting things right with God. I have always been getting walked all over by hostile operatives in the neighbourhood, because I was using drugs and sinning with my loins and not in the scripture, but now I am an iron shank for the Most High. In fact, sometimes, I feel like the Most High. That’s how powerful I am. I walk down the street, and despite never-ending evil opposition, I walk anywhere with my head up fearing nothing, least of all not cowardly sado masochists. Whom I batter.

21st Century Gossip

When all of my ‘schizophrenic’ voices are harassing my innermost sanctum, my mind and my soul, they keep egging each other on to keep ranting bull crap over me. “Keep your power up over it,” they say to one another. Apparently, when a consortium of bullies criminally pester a vulnerable brain with no privacy, using thought implantation via electromagnetic weaponry, and steal away the very essence of life (its ability to think, like breathing), it’s called power. All they rant on about is power. Mind-reading and organised stalking isn’t power, it’s cowardly. If I had a sole harasser, an enormous bodybuilder or something, and he tormented me to my face on my doorstep, or came in and battered me on regular intervals, then shat on my bed, I’d respect something about it. But constantly whispering nonsense and chatting bubbles via secretive methods of microwave hearing is nothing like that. The things they say over their evil tech doesn’t resemble what they’d dare say to you in public.

I keep replying back to them that real power is industry and revolution, engineering, building and order in civilisation. I ask them to pick on the steel magnets and the oil tycoons. Why not pick on a wealthy banker, or an architect, or a grand designer? Take a look around, at all the property in the world. Cathedrals, shopping arcades, mega structures, symmetrical neighbourhoods, viaducts, bridges, damns, canals. Then we have warships and fighter aircraft, jumbo jet planes and submarines. The white house. The houses of parliament. Military bunkers. Worldwide conglomerates and businesses and fraternities and institutions. Doesn’t all this reek of true power? The police force. If I were an alien visiting earth, and I was obsessed with power like my voices are, these are the destinations I would first head for. Would you seriously pick on just one mind in a council estate and bombard the living daylights out of it with death threats and torture promises every waking second of its adult life? Would you hire cronies to follow them around, spreading slander and being rude on purpose? Would you illegally enter their property and move things around, to terrify them? What’s powerful about a gang of intimidators picking on a lonely individual and driving it towards induced suicide? That’s nothing more than mere wimpy cruelty. Of the highest order. Or should I say the lowest.

When the non-touch torture, or soft-kill, first begins, you revere your tormentors like royalty. V2K is call the Voice Of God for a reason. I don’t know about you when growing up, but I didn’t believe telepathy was possible. When it hits you bang-slap in the head, you tend to instantly think that you are dealing with a higher power. I never thought that science would ever be able to fathom out what a person was thinking deep inside. Your thoughts are private, aren’t they? They can’t be sensed or heard. I was so wrong. But before I knew I was wrong, and got informed, my mind was completely blown by the technology being used to sadistic effect upon me. Not only could they read my internal monologue of words, but they could see what my Third Eye was seeing, and even control it, so I saw things in my mind which they wanted me to see. Not too bad if you’re in a shotgun communion with beautiful pixies from a distant pleasantly-spiritual planet, but not so great if you’re being interfered with by a bunch of nutters and sado-masochists who drink infants blood for supper. Welcome to psychic warfare and mind control in the 21^st century. I still almost don’t believe some of it myself. I wouldn’t even share it here, because I know that you just wouldn’t buy what I was saying. Invisibility, teleportation, and intergalactic beings sharing your bed with you are only the half of it.

Now I find them difficult to believe because of their stupid petty attitude. Seriously, they are hard to describe. It’s like fighting a gaggle of prepubescent children. I try my hardest to treat them with a modicum of respect, for, despite being inhuman devil’s blood, they are still life form. But any compassion gets flung back in my face. They know absolutely nothing apart from pain and suffering and evil. And being senseless, useless, pitiful cowards. So no, I’m not scared of their cosmic tactics anymore, and I won’t be leaving my home because of their assassins to be driven to desperation in a night shelter or hostel. I’ll be doing zilch, and certainly not spinning round in fearful circles, like I used to. So there. F**k off, evildoers, and take your fake schizophrenia and all the rest of it with you.

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.