Tying A Knot And Hanging On

(1) Sorry I’m not as topical as I used to be. Mainstream affairs and side interests take the back seat when your very life is under threat. I’m trying to coldly detach myself from what’s going on. The autonomy of the mind is hard to drop though. I find myself stubbornly defending myself in the face of devastating adversity. It’s to no use. They find my reasonable explanations boring, my humour non-contagious, and my free-thinking a direct threat.

The best I can do is become a more rounded emotional being. I’m striving to do this by keeping my heart open. When all around the people I trust are betraying me. It’s only sly insults under their breath, and unpardoned sneaky videos on their phone, but the tally adds up.

What’s the point in living, if there’s no one you can trust?

That’s a line from one of my own poems.

I’ve started writing another poem about the Critter behind the washing machine, but I’ve yet to finish it.

Last night I had a screaming woman sounding off in my head all night. They change their tactics a lot, but a constant visual screaming woman I’ve yet to deal with. Stronger today. 

(2) It’s important to drop your vices eventually, I feel, if for nothing else but the sheer principle of it. I can’t remain hooked to women forever. Not the ones in knee-high boots, sporting whips. I might never be able to move on.

I’m making great strides forward with my chief narcissists. I’m seeing them, wholly and fully, for the bored childish bullies they are. On the other hand, I now view myself as something great in the cosmos compared to them. This is weird on every level, as I hate comparisons. Whenever somebody treats me nicely, or I get shown respect, my heart rejoices. Because so much of my time is spent vying to ignore a heartless argumentative goon squad.

Another day survived then, it looks like. I doubt I’ll be jumping off any bridges this evening, or stringing up on a flimsy curtain rail. Or overdosing on heroin. I should be so lucky. I’m shirking away electromagnetic, mind-scuppering ruffians instead. But now it’s different. Oh so different.

Suppressing my hatred, my bitterness, my impossibly deep revulsion, and speaking the truth in a calm voice. No fits of anger, no spouts of rage, no flashes of bad temper. Yet still they maintain that I am endlessly responding to their pointless mind games. The God’s Honest would kill them.

(3) I met a remarkable gentleman who believes me. He suspects clairvoyance. I was so made up he didn’t use the term chemical imbalance. My tormentors threw a hissy fit when we connected, and I perceived supernatural light emanating from his body as we spoke.

My life is kinda like that. There was a lot more to it, but I haven’t the energy or the time to properly dissect proceedings here at the honey pot today. Maybe another time, eh.

Invisible foes and voices in the head. You wouldn’t wish it on your worst enemy would you?

I hold out that I belong in Heaven. This they cannot handle.

I don’t like giving them airtime, but gone are the days talking about pottery. Not unless I sign up for the local midweek ceramics class! I’d ordinarily think about it, but it’s full of women. I’d be the only bloke. I know this because I walk past it every week in the Old School, and clock what’s happening through the window.

There’s as much chance of me making a sixth studio album than churning out another clay sculpture. I miss them both sorely. Now I have to settle for this, complaining about being battered to someone I will never meet. No offence there. Perhaps we were close buddies in a previous life. Who knows for sure stuff like that?