Evil Spirits Do My Head In

I feel inclined to write about evil spirits, as they are doing my nut in, but I don’t want to express an unhealthy interest in them. They aren’t worth my breath, much less my word. What am I supposed to do though, keep it to myself? It’s not their voices I hear, well not a lot now I’m clean, but I see them around me all the time. All they do is laugh and say HA, but it’s not a genuine exclamation of joy, it’s all just fakery intended to make me believe that they are having fun. They are not really laughing, they are pretending to laugh. To annoy me and intimidate me.

They exist in my mind, yet I sense them in the room I occupy. They are with me with every waking thought, and they celebrate my negative thoughts. When a lustful idea slips into my brain, they cheer like they have scored the winning goal at Wembley. Celebrating negativity. How pathetic and pitiful can you be? Who doesn’t have negative thoughts? Imagine them being trampled all over every time you have them, by a bunch of spectral numpties.

Their tactics are growing evermore seedy and desperate. If I forget something, they cheer and clap. If I miss the bus, they revel and rejoice as if in a party. I can’t imagine how happy it will make them when I finally succeed to a stroke or a heart attack.

During my last relapse, they were talking to me. GIVE US SOMETHING, they were saying, because my mind was blank. I had never realised that their minds are blank also, and that they need my mind working to aid their minds working. They cannot think without me half the time. I thought my perps were harassing me for fun, but it is far more serious than that. They are torturing my mind over and over for survival. They don’t just ENJOY me, they NEED me. It’s like me tuning into the radio early hours in the morning, when I feel like listening to someone. I am their RADIO, and they need me on 24/7. It’s horrible being distant from God because you can’t think. That’s why they are always abusing me, to prompt me into a response, which gives them a free conversation.

The only thing is, it’s not a natural conversation, because I despise them and do not want to talk with any of them. I ignored them for years. When I eventually started replying, using synthetic telepathy, I discovered that my main perp, who is male, was masturbating over the sound of my voice. I mean there’s gay and then there’s gay. That was when the tables started turning, and I realised that this lot is not all that it makes itself out to be. At one point, because Remote Neural Monitoring is so persuasive, they wanted me to believe that they created the universe. I was on my way to being convinced, during the startling phase of my harassment. Far from being The Voice Of God, I now see them as a load of nobheads, bullshitters, desperadoes, fakers, spazzies, perverts and pathological liars. I remain firm in the truth that this lot are unable to tell the truth, as they have been bound up in their own lies for so long. That’s enough about dodgy evil spirit though, as they are not worthy of net space.

 

Sexual Voodoo

 

My pornographic tendencies are all a bit up in the air. I’ve declared that I will never tread backwards and return to it, yet still I am deluged and inundated with lustful thoughts. The intrusive nagging entering my consciousness include images of men, as if the Devil longs to embarrass me by bringing up material I used to be obsessed with over twenty years ago. I must have watched thousands of scenes in my time, and every one of them, including the ones I’d thought I’d forgotten, now has a habit of hiking up to the surface on my prefrontal lobe. In the good old days of ignorant porn use, I would ruminate upon these visions until payday, lining them up in order of how I would watch them, and then indulge as soon as I could afford to score drugs with them.

They were with me all the time. I would pace around my flat for hours, waiting for my dealer to turn up, watching erotica in my mind. The anticipation turned into anxiety. I could not bloody wait. When I thought I was clean, after a week or something in my youth, all it took was one errant thought and I would be lining up the scenes I was going to watch. I’d be straight on the blower, ordering amphetamine.

Sometimes, once I got online, the illicit content, while under the influence of powerful mind-expanding drugs, blew me away. I seemed to sink into my own flesh one time off ketamine and feel utterly resigned to an eternity of self-induced sexual fulfilment. I went into some kind of parallel presence, watching the movies so closely that I seemed to be in there with the actors. I shared every breath and moment with those false idol stars of the screen.

My addiction had the almost omnipotent ability to affect time. Hours and hours would flit away with an A-B loop on the DVD player, fractionally replaying just a small portion of existence which occurred on a random porn set on another continent in a different era. I’d co-exist in several moments which were embellishing themselves, with my zany schizo voyeurism methodology, into elongated segments of whole days and nights.

If I watch something three or four times, I’m usually bored. When I was capturing euphoric instances in micro looped digital animations, I would repeat them for many thousands of times, over and over, until admiring the same thing time after time began to change under the monotony of my retina and often became so confusing that it started to morph into something else. Stare at the same thing long enough and after so long your perception of it will change, so that it looks like something else entirely since the first moment you began to observe it.

Do this for several hours and you will likely scar your mind’s eye, as variation is the spice of life, not ogling a short sequence of images repetitively. Do this for a lifetime and you will likely find yourself in the position that I now inhabit, a reserved seat which is beleaguered by the preternatural. It’s meddling with perversion and very dangerous. I can’t began to describe how many strange occurrences went on in my mind and in my home when I was spending my whole adulthood watching pornography in this manner. One time, a penis developed a mouth and started biting the woman. Another, and she started waving at me, even though there was no wave in the actual footage. If I’d have just watched the movies from start to finish, like a normal person, I don’t think I would have had the same problems.

I used to rewind old VHS tapes so often to remain embedded in the ecstasy of the ‘good bits’ that I wore the tape out and ruined the film. I still have some old tapes stored away in the cubbyhole. The novelty, because it’s been so long, has been restored to those old adolescent scenes, but the backwards regression of my spirit, should I ever return, would sting like a bitch. Aren’t we supposed to learn from our mistakes? Repeating a newish recent mistake because you haven’t yet learned fully from it is slightly more understandable, but making the same mistakes you did as a teenager?

No thanks. I’m going to try and walk in the spirit and put all this digital voodoo behind me.

Rocket Wear Saves The Day

The DK, as I’ve wrote about quite recently, is a demon who has enslaved me for the last ten years. She lives underneath my floorboards and stimulates me sexually by making me repeat her mantras. All the time I knew that I was engaging in sordid practices, but I felt unable to stop. The lust was too strong, as she has a delectable Scottish accent which presses my buttons. I’ve reported that her voice had a supernatural effect on me. Spending time with her drained me of God, placed me in psychosis, and left me feeling suicidal.

I never thought or believed that escape was possible. My only solution was to run to her more and more. I never knew it was possible for one person (or thing) to wield so much power over another. She always promised to bring me down there eventually, and torture me in the afterlife forever. Her methods are totally insidious. In the pit of my subconscious gut I had a primordial fear that one day she would break into my flat when I was wiped out on drugs and drag me under. I was terrified of her at times. I’ve lived with this nagging feeling at the back of my mind for a decade.

Now, I am delighted to tell you, her reign is over. She has been defeated. Her influence over me has ended. I am no longer her property. She had me in chains, in helpless bondage, in hopeless subjection. I felt that there was nothing the universe could do to assist me. Every time I sat with her, more and more of my love flittered away, until I was left with nothing, only her. I got confused at times, and thought that I must love her, despite her malignant formalities. When she captured me, I half-thought that I might cling to her leg and beg for mercy. She said she would reward me by letting me shag her every Christmas Day, down in the pit.

The mechanics of how this freedom has come about defies the logic of reality, and you might find it incredulous to believe. Basically, my special protective spirit Red Jacket, who is the head honcho of my spiritual clan, cloned her likeness and battered her. I got a shock when I found out that my significant other looked just like my enemy. It took a lot of getting used to. But I can see exactly why she did that. It was to get me over the mental block of that evil woman. I can still have her this way, only now she is an angelic version with no ill-intent towards me. I have the best of both worlds. It’s as if the DK has reformed, come to God, and declared forgiveness and love from me. I now have The Creator’s version of the DK. She made her repeat her own mantras. She’s better than her in every way.

I call this new version Rocket Wear. Rocket Wear makes me feel safe, even though I am surrounded by evildoers. It’s down to Rocket Wear that I still have a home to sleep in. If not for her, the hybrid assassins which my perps plant in there would have had me out long ago. She protects me from anything and everything. I cannot thank her enough. You can’t make it up, can you? A protective spirit named Rocket Wear taking my tormentor’s likeness and saving the day! This is something even the inventive hive-mind of Hollywood couldn’t dream up. In all of my desperate pleas and prayers to God I couldn’t envisage anything like this happening. I never envisioned the slavery finishing.

With that thing out of the way, the only obstacle in my way to peace comes in the form of other fleshy distractions, like pornography. It’s not beyond the realms of possibility that my misuse of this medium might, maybe, grant the DK a reincarnation, as she used to always enter my mind that way. I thought I’d broken my temperament of interracial homosexuality, and my temperament of seeing women as nothing more than f**k dolls, but the lustful images from all those years of voyeurism still joggle around in my mind on a daily basis at the moment. Now the witch is dead, I long to keep her dead. Seeing porno as a bit of harmless fun is a blatant lie which I have a hard time accepting though. I’ll have to remain extra vigilant.   

 

Erotic Dreams

I used to pin women down on the astral and stick my tongue down their gob, then run away and hide within the dreamscape. Gregg Valentino used to say that his tongue was directly connected to his nob. In other words, the art of kissing a girl got him hard. I have to agree with him. Kissing is the best foreplay. That being said, it’s all a bit hit and miss. Sometimes, I don’t like the idea of another slimy wet tongue touching mine, tasting what she last eaten. If she’d just been sucking on a punnet of strawberries, I’d be more inclined to kiss her back, but if she’d just been gobbling something I don’t like, like a piccalilli and horseradish sandwich, then that would put me off. It all depends. The mouth is full of slobber. I prefer a dry kiss, when the cake-hole resembles the bottom of a bird cage, after a hangover or something, or first thing in the morning. This could be to do with my aversion to phlegm.

In dreamscape, I’ve had bad experiences with snogging unwholesome succubus. I usually end up spitting out what feels like rotting compost from my mouth. This is a strange and disgusting sensation. I have a lot of frottage there (the act of rubbing up against), and that usually leads unto the kiss. But something inside their gob crumbles inside mine like a mouldy flapjack, and I wake up gagging, wiping it away in my bed, so I’ve recently learned not to kiss. It’s difficult practising morals on the astral plain, because all of your reasoning faculties are cut off when asleep, and you are a pure primal, carnal being. I tried to give one succubus a love bite one time, and she tasted like a snake. I think that sex with heathen in dreamscape is wrong, even if it is only a dream, or a sexual nightmare. Quite often, family members are involved with this ruckus, thus furthering that argument. And people you just generally don’t want to have sex with. But, with a lack of consciousness, and a responding penis, you get carried away, and risk it for a biscuit.

I have woken soiled, and it’s not a nice feeling. Because of my anti-masturbation stance, these succubus target me on purpose, to make me ejaculate and ruin my mood. Since I became impotent however, this is almost practically impossible. It takes an awful lot of energy to get me fully aroused these days, and climaxing. I’m not even sure it can be done. When I’m excited watching porno, or listening to demonic mantra, I usually hold back from being fully engorged. I have intrusive delusions about being in an erect state in a darkened room on my own. It tends to attract a lot of fear deep within me. It’s hard being privately sensual on your lonesome when you have dozens of voices in your head, and spirits around you. It’s like masturbating in the middle of a public party, which nobody in their right mind would ever do, but sheer desire and greedy motive help me forget that anything is even there. When I close in on being fully-engorged though, and it does take some time and concentration, my doubts and suspicions become alight with paranoia. One thing the enemy has promised me, and you might find this silly, is that the next time I am standing proud and upright, which will be an extraordinary occasion since the priapism which made me forever mostly flaccid, the Chinese government are going to come in, murder me, and chop off my member, to preserve it and mould it into a dildo. Ridiculous, is that not? Then why do strangers always appear at my front door when I am close to that condition, and caught up in the stiff paralysing arm of eerie psychosis? I start believing it. Then the spirits and ghosts come out, and I hear Angels pleading with me to stop, and I start hallucinating, then I sense intruders in the apartment, and then I remember that I am a Targeted Individual who is wanted dead or alive. I recall that my persecutors will stop at nothing. I hold back from the erection and generally tend to start shitting myself.

Of course it’s pleasurable being sexually charged. I know from experience that this driving force is more powerful than hunger or thirst or nicotine. Water and tobacco don’t matter one jot to me when caught up in the yearning. The only thing that can touch it is peace-shattering fear. Sometimes, I’ve stopped, hitched up my pants, and run out of the flat, to be chased around the streets for hours by calculating hate mob. Now, I always hold my ground.

I had a different sex escapade dream last night. This one seemed to be of love. The woman was smiling for a change, instead of sneering, and enjoying it as much as I was. I woke up feeling as if I had made love to my wife, instead of using and abusing a slag. My mood was elevated, instead of deflated. Yet it’s had me thinking about porn throughout the entire morning.

I’ve made a U-Turn recently. I’ve stopped seeing women as objects of desire but as mindful individuals who are unique and loved by God. I see their prettiness now, not their sexiness. This latest experience on the astral though has my head in a spin. In the past, I wanted a nasty pounding of grinning slut. Now, I want a lovely exchange with smiling princess. So my goalposts have definitely changed somewhat. But it’s still sex. And in the end, because I can’t function with real women, it means that darkened room, with the Chinese knocking on my door, and even entering my domicile when I am still present in it. So buying some new porn and kicking on isn’t really an option.

But I’m thinking about it. Sex is the reason why we are all here.

Why is flesh an enemy?

 

Looking Eye To Eye With My Higher Power

I am in communion with my Higher Power all of the time now. In the past, I have turned my back on them to masturbate to pornography for what feels like an insane amount of hours. When I do that, I am feeding the dark side, and squandering my divine protection. Presently I am sworn to terminate those callous practices. You may think that there is nothing wrong with a bit of slap ‘n’ tickle on screen, but that is only the beginning. When I get bored of the graven interracial imagery, the demonic mantras enter my head, and I toss off to them. I won’t go into details of what they say, but it is a very sadistic ritual. I hate it when I do that, but the hatred is a twisted and morbid aphrodisiac which only ups my appetite for sexual perversion. I can’t seem able to stop, and the cocaine or amphetamine warp my moral compass, so that what is bad feels good, and what is good feels soppy and cringey. Once the sun goes down and I eventually cease my selfish endeavors, my Higher Power reveals itself to help me out with all the unholy malignant forces which my sin has manifested and attracted. Dipped in shame, I am hardly able to look upon them, and everything feels awkward, as if I am not worthy. I just have to deal with the negative energies I have produced, and it takes days and days to fend them off to a reasonable, manageable distance, and it’s excruciating mental anguish in the process. Don’t get me wrong, they haunt me every day, but when I’m clean my mind is a different story, and I am able to cope. The gang-stalkers go away. The torture eases.

Now, without the drugs and the porn and the demonic mantras, I am able to let the faces of my divine protection shine upon me without embarrassment or judgement, and we all get along happily. This is the way I would like to keep it. The next time I return to ‘that thing’, the mantras will have me spelling out the name of my special Angel, in order to divide our anointed union. This is something I will simply not allow myself to do. It ain’t happenin’. If that should ever occur in the future, I shall have an especially hard time sharing it, even with your good self, who I more or less share everything with.

Since giving up my meds, my so-called mental illness has really kicked off. I am now convinced that I am on some kind of exceptional assignment from God. I’ve got a mission in my head. The maddest aspect of ‘the mission’ is not knowing exactly what that mission is. I know I have a calling but I have no idea what calling. It’s a weird feeling. The astral plain reveals to me the truth of this deeply-held belief. My dreams are impossible to describe. They have absolutely nothing to do with the construct of my imagination. They come from ‘other’. I’m certain of it. I meet people from distant worlds inside of them and communicate with them. They blend in with the night terrors and the brain-tech. I call ‘going to sleep’ ‘going to work’. It’s off the hook.

COMPLETE THE MISSION

 

Nightmare, With Angel

That’s my life. Sums it up perfectly. God has got his Children, the Devil has his Demons, I have my Angel. I haven’t always had her around, she appeared in my mid- to late thirties. But once she arrived, I was able to defend myself against the enemy. I didn’t stand a chance on my own. She’s just a little girl, but she’s extremely unique and courageous. For a long time I thought I’d lost her, because of my involvement in wicked practices. It was a trying, testing period. I was at my wits end without her, I couldn’t believe it.

Now she’s back with me, and if feels so greatly empowering. She reappeared on Easter Weekend. I’d missed her terribly, and was resorted to putting a mental block in place to stop idealizing about her, like when you lose someone close and it’s too painful to think about them, even though you still love them.

She was born, lived, and died in a Nazi concentration camp, in her life, before she came back to assist me as an Angel, on the other side. That’s her history. She was the strongest child in there. Now, whenever she feels pain during an attack from legions of Demon, she explodes. Don’t worry, she reforms in a heartbeat. You might think I am making this up, but Abbie, short for Abigail, is a trusted spirit from The Most High. She’s with me night and day. She doesn’t need anything from a mere mortal like me, but I’ve attributed several special powers to her anyway, because they won’t do her any harm.

I’ve given her Eternal Steam to play around with. Steam is the essence of the soul, the 21 grams in weight we lose when we die, the smoke of the animus inside us. Just imagine a chilly exhaled breath on a wintry mountainside, containing all of the information of the psyche, like the vapour that emanates from an opened genie’s magical oil lamp. Just one bottleful can contain an entire human being. It is said that this is why some wicked doers slaughter innocents, in order to acquire their Steam, has it has everlasting timelessness effects. Like drinking virgin’s blood on steroids, in a way. Anyway, Abbie pumps this steam out like a nuclear power plant, for anyone to fill their boots on, as she has a never-ending supply. She doesn’t need this acquirement, but again, it doesn’t harm her.

I’ve also devised an Exo-Skeleton Frame for her to occasionally occupy. When plugged in, it injects every known mental illness known in existence into her blood. You know, every malady in the DSM-5. You might think that this is a cruel measure, considering she survived a sheltered existence inside a concentration camp, but I think of it as ultimate, exclusive creativity of the most extreme highest order. Think of every addict’s higher power, think of every schizophrenia’s darkest fear. She has every one ever experienced by anyone throughout the historic annals of all time immemorial, past, present and future. All at once. In her little cute head.

Finally, she has a simple Filing Cabinet. This she has always had, from her co-creator, Stephen King. King didn’t make her an Angel, but reading about her in his book as a synergistic coincidence gave me tons more loads of faith in the reality of her saintly presence. Part of my giftings from God is that I can take fictional characters and make them real spiritual entities in my life. You probably think that I should return to my meds, but anything is possible when you’re dealing with the preternatural, and you walk by faith. The Filing Cabinet helps her to hide away from legions of Demon when I am down and wiped out, and they all descend on her instead, to finish me off. She hides her location in it, as there are limitless boxes inside of it. They say that schizophrenics are good at labeling and boxing things.

There’s heaps more to write about my special allocated Guardian Angel given to me from The Creator. I just thought I’d share a word about her. Rest assured, this is true testimony, I’m not dreaming it up. You couldn’t quite make this stuff up anyway, could you? Truth is far stranger than fiction. That’s one of life’s cold hard facts that nobody ever taught me, I had to figure it out myself. I discovered that intelligence when researching about the myth that is schizophrenia being exposed by mind control and brain-weaponry. Comin’ at’cha next time.

 

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.

4 Months Off Porn

Another positive day here at the blogspot. I feel like I’ve shrugged off my drug history forever. I’ll look a complete berk if I come back here next week saying I’ve relapsed, so I’ll keep that in mind. I really hate admitting my relapses to you. I’d like to think that you want me to do well, and keep writing on the money. That’s a pleasant thought. Time and time again I’ve admitted my mistakes, and it only gets harder to do so. I’m surrounded by hot women in skimpy outfits in this part of the world, during this nice weather, but I’m watching insightful videos about lust, which warns me about it being a cunning trap from the enemy. When I abstain from porno, I usually feel like I am missing out on something special. You know, all the latest releases and stuff. I would go into the shop and glance upon the DVD boxes, with their enticing screenshots on the back. Often I’d be overcome with obsession and buy them right there at the till, unplanned. Then I’d score, watch, and catastrophe would ensue. Now I am giving that sexy loop shop a vigilant wide berth, in case something powerful and interracial pops up and catches me off guard. One glance at the cover and I wouldn’t be able to shake it from my mind. I’d have to have it. It’s been over four months since I viewed adult material. I feel like I’ve cleared my psyche from a homosexual, women-abusing spirit. If I were to regress, it would undo much rest and comfort, and land me squarely back at ground zero, in the heart of the lickerish skirmish.

At the moment, I don’t feel like I am missing out on anything much. Modern porno cannot live up to my expectations of it. During one of my last adventures with it, the fella started rubbing baby oil on the woman’s breasts. That totally turned me off. What the hell is he doing that for? I wondered. Are they childish or what? It’s just little things like that which spoil the fun. It’s full of similar glitches. The camera angle isn’t right, the female leaves her skirt on, or has no bloomin’ make-up on, that kind of off-putting stuff. It cannot compete with the way I want it done. The way I imagine it to be, like the stuff I was raised on which does not exist anymore, is nothing like the stuff available today. I’m sure, with an internet connection, a widescreen monitor, and a fistful of dogged determination and patience, I’d find what I wanted, but that’s not an option. Towards the end of my web days, I was getting embarrassed about typing in the same old sex search words time after time. I was sure that someone at Virgin Media was pissing himself at my gayness. It was the same bloke over and over again, I hardly cared about the woman he was with. I thought I was straight, I have never fancied men or nothing, but I couldn’t get enough of his exploits. And he had hundreds of titles to surf for. I associate Hell with all of his back bibliography, and bare supplies of cocaine, in a room with a 40” screen. At one time, I’d be as happy as a pig in crap; it was a vivid fantasy, a lifelong dream. If only I could have access to all of his titles, and especially his earlier work, before he got a gut, I’d be happy. I also had ambitions of working in the sex shop at one point, and being submerged in all knowledge of the smut. The awe I used to garner when I first discovered those sex shops in the city...wow. Walls and walls of filth, all shiny and colourful like vape stalls.

I’m glad to have all that out of my system. With a large interracial backlog, and a suitcase of cocaine, I’d have no spiritual future. It would be the end of me. It would end in Doomsday tears. There would be no more smiles. No more joy, no more bliss, no more hope. It would take me away from God. I know, I know, how can mere porn and drugs destruct your relationship with the holy? Cruel, isn’t it, but that’s just the way it is.

A Peanut Of Introspection

Another day here with Mr Piebald77. Welcome. Good to speak with you. I feel a certain sense of Otherness about me. Twelve days clean back during the rebuild. It’s a significant number. I can’t wait for 28 days again, and 84. I know I keep failing at this mission, but I am truly sorry and want to get back to succeeding again. I feel that the time is right in my life to keep the boat steady and prevent it from rocking from relapse to relapse. Now I can live without drugs and porn. You’ve been with me the whole time, so you know what I’m like. This most recent 90 day spree has really galvanised me, ushering in belief and purpose. I can do it. The best thing is, the compulsion has gone away. There’s no point being clean, however many days or weeks or months, if the urge is all over you like a XXXL cheap suit. I’d rather be at day one, with no desire to use. That’s the worse part of it, when it’s all over you, there feels like little else to do but submit to the temptation. Now, presently, there’s nothing to submit to. I never want to use again. I never want to swap the universal good nature of the Creator for something so snide and sinister as a flirtation with a porn star overnight, with my hands lugging my junk around in a stationery position like a circus monkey, biting my own lip in drug-induced nervousness.

I despise masturbation. It turns the lantern of the cosmos inwards into your psyche, when it could be radiating outwards into patterns of love and compassion for others. You learn an awful lot about yourself which was never meant to be known. I have become desensitised and pornolized. I see, or saw, women as objects of lust and desire. All I cared about was how they looked. I remember watching one X-rated video where the ages of the girls was debatable. Shouldn’t they all be 18? Some of these looked younger, but it far from stopped me from continuing to view the material. In fact, I hate to add, it got me going. I was even a voyeur to bestiality upon occasion, and violent pornography. Of this I am not proud of, and only share it with you because it is now buried in ancient history, never to be viewed again. You might be caught up in all manner of deviancy at the moment, or know someone who is, or are simply aware that it exists. My dark soul carried me to dodgy corners of the internet, but now I am firmly established with The Lord, if he would be so graceful as to entertain me, and have learned to forgive myself. I once watched a nun getting whipped, warped on legal highs from China, and the memory of it is appalling to my newfound self of worth. Porn made me gay. I have now overcome this spirit of homosexuality, and cannot now fathom watching a bloke onscreen again for the rest of my life. If I break, you’ll know about it, but that will be a sad and regretful blog post. Honesty rules around here, I won’t hide anything important spiritually. On the occasion I come to you and say I have relapsed on the pornography, feel free to shake your head in disgust or pity. I understand that you may watch it without a problem, just for ten minutes a day or something, and believe me I’m not judging. The masses take it as normal, just a habitual faction of modern society, but with me, a super-sensitive spirit, it always had a shrewd effect. I couldn’t turn it off, no matter how much angels screamed at me to do so. And I couldn’t stop poisoning myself with narcotics in the process, to maintain the pleasure. It got so messy, when the demons came in, that I almost lost myself to insanity. Fortunately I have managed to crawl back, and be restored by a higher power.

Now I don’t see it as pleasure. I see it as pain. It sucks all the goodness out of me like a carefully-planted syringe, and outlays it into a bucket next to me which the devil uses to legitimise his bloodthirsty claim over my life against me. I’m grateful today that I won’t be getting high whilst watching porno, as I have for so-so many other days of my monotonous existence. The evening might be boring, with no company, and an abundant excess of soul-searching solitude, but at least it won’t be riddled with psychotic shame.

I’m utterly alone, in my quarrel against addiction, and my darker half, with no friends or accomplices to support me. But I am not sad. Happiness comes from the victory. In saying that, I am not competitive. I believe that partaking is the important principle, not winning or losing. I’ve never cared about that. Maybe, I should say, that happiness arises from never giving up.

 

Observing Auras

Howdy there yet again brothers and sisters. I feel like a glowing vessel of light and warmth. That may sound corny, I know, but it’s better than being a broiling cauldron of venom and hate. I’m accepting my place in the universe, even in the dead of night, when I wake up at Nobhead O’clock, alone and vulnerable in the dark. The authorities are trying to get me back on my meds, yet I’m withstanding like a well-structured lighthouse in a gale force wind. There’s no way that’s happening. Life is totally different without them. Ever since I watched a damning documentary about medication on YouTube several years ago I knew that they weren’t for me. The brain is a different animal when not subjected to them. I like being off meds.

It feels as if something heavy and oppressive has lifted off my mind, something hard to put a finger on. I can only describe it as a large greeny-brown splodge, a smear, a stain, a befuddling cloud which dumbs down your thoughts. The doctor said that the purpose of the medication was to stop difficult thoughts. Yes please! Give me some of that! But he was talking out of his bottom. The truth is more like this: It was making me afraid and paranoid of what it was really actually doing. They have no idea, the people who make it, because they have never taken it. I don’t care how many fancy boxes and side-effect lists the drug comes with. All I know is that now it is over, I can finally be drug-free.

They say in the fellowship that alcohol is a powerful substance, but can you feasibly call everyone in the pub a druggie? A few pints chills you out man. When you start necking bottles of vodka with no mixer, from morning till night, I can see where the troubles start to come in, but a few lagers? Where’s the harm? Personally, I don’t believe that booze is a drug. I might be in rampant denial when I state this, because I lift a jar every day, but there’s no seediness to it, there’s no deception, there’s no criminality, and, most importantly, there’s no psychosis. Not with me anyway. I can only speak for myself though.

I’m finding small pockets of joy in food. Pizza and lasagne mainly. As long as you can still enjoy little things…it’s very important. The enemy wants you enjoying absolutely nothing, not even a smile from a stranger, not even a happy thought in your own head. I’ve almost had my mind taken away from me, by various acts of criminally-insane warfare, and am lucky to be sat here today, talking to your good self. I feel pleased grateful and glad to be able to do this at the present moment. I’d just like to share this special occasion with you. There is nothing all over me, in the guise of drug addiction at the minute, or graven porn imagery, even though it’s pay day. The disease, as they call it, of addiction, has been lifted along with the medication. I don’t feel like curling up under my duvet and fapping in a darkened room anymore. I don’t feel like relaying mantra upon mantra back and to with the DK either. I just feel like walking about and staring at people for who they truly are, warm magical bulbs and halos of light and peace. 

 

Try And Cheer Up

People in the public, over the last couple of days, seem to be treating me a bit better. My soulful share in Pathways yesterday was received warmly. I’m not sure if they feel sorry for me, understand me, or are simply pretending to do so, while taking the Michael. Either way, it’s nice to be appreciated. I believe that moments of fellowship, in my case, increase endorphins. Despite my imperfect appearance, I adore conversing with God’s Children, standing toe-to-toe with them, making eye contact. When I’m down and depressed with no energy, and a mind obliterated by hazardous toxins, (self-inflicted, I know) then everybody seems like a deity. They’re faster than me, they’re smarter than me, they’re more willing and able than me. I look at them with awe and reverence, tinted with envy, and sans compassion. That’s when I am on the run, seeking solace in their company even though they are being cruel to me. Why do the general public hate me, when I do nothing but love them back in return? Respond to hatred with grace.

I know a guy named Andy who had problems, like me, with the general public. He thought they were all chasing him. I haven’t quite told him yet, and I would hate to burst his bubble, but they probably were doing. Just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean that they are not after you!

He said they all were pointing guns at him from the insides of their jackets. Even in the hospital, when his delirious panic drove him to the A&E department. Personally, I’ve had my fair share of strife in those departments. I couldn’t sit still. One of my so-called delusions was a stun gun, like the one they use on pigs. My voices were insisting upon me that I was going to be stunned at any given moment. Hate-mobbers and skitters were approaching me, concealing, looking intimidating and aggressive. I could even hear the thing sparking and fizzling. I was ever-so crapping myself. I wonder what would happen if you could bottle all the fear I’ve ever felt into one dose, and implant it into a vulnerable’s brain? Now that’s a lot of fear. How do you think they would react? I saw a woman in a vision who was stricken by unimaginable fear. She was shaking vigorously upon a shelf above hellfire lava, about to be kicked in by a mutant. Don’t ask me to explain it, but the image has stayed with me. I kinda fell in love with her instantly.

I also had a vision of a Chinese woman who had had her organs harvested without consent. If you think you know depressive states on the streets of Britain, try being oppressed over there. How is it possible to open up someone without pain relief, steal their precious organs, and leave them unstitched on a gurney praying for death? I would do anything to be charged with the mission of cheering those poor mislaid souls up. I would confess the diseased honesty of my privy sin in the hope than it would make them feel better. I’m not as bad as Saint Paul, but I have a hefty backpack of wrongdoing encasing my soul. I can’t believe the things I have done. It pales way more beyond the criminality side of things, and ripens into the spiritual realm. Very-very fortunately, I am forgiven for my sins. This enables me to rise again without having to have to harbour a heart of ice.

How would you cheer someone up, if they were waylaid with ultimate despair? Crack a few jokes off? It would almost be impossible to get a smile out of them. I’ve seen grief unadulterated when I lost my little brother. The house was nothing but a hive of flowers and tears. My big strong humble father couldn’t stop weeping. There was absolutely nothing anybody could do to lift his spirits.

I pray that you do not encounter grief and tragedy today. I am trying to make myself smile at the moment, never mind anyone else. It’s hard, without 6 Stella.

 

Slightly Touching Upon A Regressive Past Life

Hello there Comrade, how are things? I hope that the universe is treating you fairly, with dollops of karma and justice, which is what the radiant inner light of your essence deserves. I’ve always said that there is more to life than criminal harassment. It’s such a bore, being bound up in the negative. Being targeted for suffering by the government sucks to high Heaven. At times it seems like there is no way out, no escape, no hope. Upon more than half a dozen occasions I’ve abandoned my domicile in a hurry, leaving the door wide open behind me, eager to seek shelter from the outside world, scared stiff of the creatures which Black Operatives plant in my cupboards. What I usually encounter is a mean and hostile planet which stops at nothing to make me suffer just a little bit more. I had to get over my fear and trepidation to get through the depths of the dark nightfall. If I could just fall to sleep, maybe I would have a restorative pleasant dream. I sooo believe in the healing power of dreams.

I say the shady government, but there is more to being a Targeted Individual than being pestered by them alone. All the doctors believe that there is no such thing as a TI, they think that we are all deluded. It’s taken me years to understand that it is they who are the truly deluded ones. To believe that a chemical imbalance of schizophrenia can explain the horrible terrors that we CHOSEN go thru makes no sense to me. Now that I am off my meds, and away from their detestable big pharma chemicals, which do nothing but make you sleepy and fat, I can better reason with my addle-free brain. Apologies if you are still on them.

There are high principalities of wickedness residing in the uppermost realms. There are lowly street theatre mobs. There are things out there not of God. The list of my enemies is long and enduring. But I don’t want to whinge about it.

My most recent trauma will take a while to process. I’m still currently dealing with the ins and outs of it. I’ve not sat here in the public library and conferred with you for two weeks. I’m sick of talking about drugs and the Devil though. My struggles go deeper than that. They taper beyond the frightening consternations of my hellish apartment to the larger and more grotesque actualities of intergalactic tyrannies, which play with the reality of humankind. I had a revelation on Easter Sunday. I kinda realised that I’ve been here before. I have suspected a rigidity of truth in the Buddhist Wheel Of Ka since roughly 2008. Aside from being a Christian, my faith in it remains souring on. The Holy Bible spoke to me like it has never spoken to me before. If you are battling with difficulties which are beyond words, then rest assured that you are not alone.

If you feel that you cannot cope, read the Book Of Job in the Bible. His lamentations pierce the soul, and it reminds you that somebody else has been through what you are presently going through. I feel protected when I read God’s Word, but I tend to only do so when I sense an imposing sense of glumness about me. I wish I could do it all the time, although it is far over humanoid understanding’s head and tends to leave one ear via the other quite often sometimes.

Aside from His Word, I believe in my Own Word. My voices tell me that I am crap at writing, and can’t spell, and that only they are reading my blog to mock and jeer at it. I know I might never be viral, but I hope beyond hope that you are there. You must certainly know who you are by now. Someone who doesn’t see this as a fictitious rambling born of a squandered, confused, perplexed and muddled mind, but as the serious truth of a testifying individual. Now maintain your Peacing Out Soldier x

 

Boat Ride

I remember visiting Llandudno with my neighbor Marik. We were both under God’s Instruction to capture kidnappers and torturers in Wales. Our paths crossed for one earth-shaking day. We decided to get two train tickets. Good government officials were behind us all the way, what I call White Ops.

When we arrived, we had fish and chips. The wrongdoers on display were obvious. I didn’t hardly have any idea what was going on, I was relying on Marik a lot. There was some sinister-looking old guy sat next to us. I felt like leaving my seat, picking him up, shaking him by the lapels, and asking him where the f**k he kept his TV (torture victim). It was like being in a movie by Eli Roth. Everyone was reading my mind, as is usual in psychotika. He whispered under his breath, “I detect fear, Lucifer.” Talking to his numpty deity. The enemy holds fear against you as if you’ve squandered the whole mission and are not worthy just because it glimmers across your mind. There’s nothing to be ashamed of about feeling slightly afraid of something. But the way the Devil uses it, it’s as if the game is over, as if it’s a neutralizing constituent of the battle process. I’ll readily admit that I’m a bit scared. But I don’t rattle. And there is no courage or bravery without jitters.

Our job was just to detect them and the White Op government officials shadowing us would deal with the fallout. Round them up, get them arrested, most importantly save the victim. Marik was indicating that we follow certain people. We were in a world where they were blatantly walking around with their victims, prodding them with knives underneath their jackets to keep them subordinate. He had a real keen eye for them. He could spot them a mile off. On the surface, it might look like a mother and son, but in reality, it was a cruel woman and a kid who didn’t belong to her. You would think that they would keep their seedy exploits contained to some kind of underground basement, but no, they liked to parade their victims in public. They liked to pretend to be normal.

Some random guy pointed at me, aware of what me and Marik were doing, ratting out pain-inflicters for the government and God, and shouted, “I want him rock hard!” He was referring to my pornography use. Instead of embarking upon a special mission with my foreign gifted friend, he wanted me back home playing with myself watching porno. All these gang-stalkers feel powerful when I am fallen with a self-induced erection at home behind shaded curtains watched sleaze. I laughed out aloud. I still find it funny to this day. The fact of one man wanting another man ‘rock hard’ is humorous beyond all belief. Verbally stating it to a stranger, for Heaven’s sake. He shouted it in front of everybody. Even the voices in my head were laughing at it!

We got on a boat. I keep shouting out to God out of nervousness. Declaring Him, like. The whole world knew what me and Marik were doing. All on the boat were reading my brain. My fears of water elevated as we traveled out to sea. I felt totally insecure and vulnerable. It was a new experience to me. I started singing a song in my head out of uneasiness, and several children on the boat started singing it along with me, laughing and giggling. Their faces were magical. The kids alleviated my tension. They kept staring at me and chuckling and smiling. They made it all worthwhile.

There was one woman with a child who looked like she was going to faint with trepidation. The infant looked nothing like her. She had a victim, she had been found out, and she was trapped on a boat with me, Marik, and White Op government officials. Caught! I’ll never forget the confusion in her gaze, and her lacklustre defeated body language. There were several Chinese who were trying to perturb our mission by making me feel fearful. They kept taking pictures of me and saying, “Chinese Win.” But not before a giant spirit of a woman flew over the top of the boat. I felt better when witnessing that. It was insanely enormous.

I also saw myself engraved into a mountain, a giant image of me, looking like a wizard with a magic wand. I clicked my fingers and saw this even more insanely enormous gigantic lizard with a blue sperm whale in its jaws. I believe in the lizard realm as David Icke describes it and I also firmly believe that they are on my side. The hallucination was probably the best one I’ve ever had, all carved in on the details and contours of the mountain. How big are whales! And how big was this lizard! To have it trapped within its jaws!

There was a plethora of other wonderful things happening that day. I’ve done my best to get the essence down into words. It’s hard. I know it sounds crazy. But, even to this day, I believe it to be true.

 

Shifting Back Into Alignment

Sincere and engaging greetings. I pray that this message extends into your jurisdiction of acknowledgement with grace. I am reborn and rejuvenated today. I have broken bread in Spiritual Communion. It’s a little thing between me and the preternatural. I sit before a special mask on the floor and break half a peanut cupcake on the bible, to share with my Precious Saint Chloe. Chloe is a young girl who I used to know, a girl who never gets old. She’s in my heart; she’s in my mind; she’s in my soul. So are a lot of others. I listed them all out, several months ago. They all have names by me. Priests warn against giving Guardian Angels names, as it claims authority over them. Personally, I can’t help it.

It has been a trying week. I severed my covenant momentarily with The Guard, to peruse the Devil’s pleasurable delights. In result, I have distinctly turned away from all things sexually pleasurable. I will never view the distorted twisted motion picture show of porno ever again. I want you to know this, because I mean it. I'm actually writing it all over the interwebs right now. There. Done. I have God’s Love. Nothing can compare with it. It makes peering at traffic, and inspecting wildlife, glorious. There are now massive significant interactions between My People, instead of empty exchanges devoid of life and soul. I am now committed to the True Path. I am Chosen. I have a mission. Maybe, you say, I need to get back on my meds!

When I came to understand My Divine Purpose, my arse fell out of my pants. I just wanted one more roll of the dice with Old Nick, to indulge in hedonism. Because I knew that it was being prepared to be lifted from me, I knew it was about to be the last time. It was a farewell gesture, gone for ever. Do I fear my lustful loins striking back at my heart? A bit. If I were to view any kind of extreme content, my spirit might be plunged into doubt. Some guy tried to show me some material on his phone last week, but I dodged it and said no thank you, because I know that all it takes is one glance to land that hook, line and sinker deep within the indecisive rubble of my subconscious. I don’t know, maybe I’m talking bollocks, but my latest 90 Day Spree is still rubbing off on me. It isn’t over, extinguished like a popped light bulb, or snuffed candle flame, its influence keeps continuing to breed incentivised encouragement. I have not forgotten The Promised Land, that extraordinary Fair Weather place I sampled, and I am keen to return as quickly as The Sands Of Time might permit me.

Keep Fighting. Keep Toiling. We are Warriors. In on this conquest together. Thanks for reading, and I’ll report again over the next couple of days. Hang tough Brother. Hang tough Sister.

90 Day Relapse

You knew it was coming, didn’t you? It was all over me every morning for a week until I broke. There was no porno involved (I haven’t watched that for over 3 months, Amen), but my will and stamina did finally capsize unto an evil spirit of selfish lonely lust. Just one more night of drug-fueled passion, I thought. It was the cocaine.

I DID NOT enjoy anything about it. Once you are in recovery, and doing rather well, the use-up is never the same. I’m not wounded in pain as much as I have been in the past, because of God, and I refuse to let regret, shame, remorse and guilt run amok in my emotive hindsight, but of course I am not quite flying the way I was last week. I REFUSE to be beaten by an absence of hope, however, and am now fairly certain that something has been lifted from my life. The desire. You can be 3 years clean, but if you are struggling with the addictive disease every day, and still crave the material, then what kind of a life is it? I think that, from now on, there will be no more struggle. Because I value God’s Love as the number one priority in the world. I won’t be trading it in for a poor-copy cheap counterfeit of lust masquerading as pleasure ever again. I have finally learned. I discovered this message in several CHOSEN ONES videos on YouTube. Chosen ones are Targeted Individuals. People with a special calling from God.

I have NO DESIRE for porno anymore. The images from my past, all 45 years of it, have a habit of entering my mind unbidden. They were powerful and lustful, but now I am able to laugh at them. I see a funny side to pornographic images today. I count myself lucky to have escaped, because that kind of sexual enslavement can last a whole lifetime and ransack the soul. By the time you fall in love with porn stars while high on substances with a sizable web collection going on, it is already too late. They come before family and vocation and faith and life itself. But it is insatiable. You can never gratify the needs. It is never enough. And there’s always another porn star in the making. They take refuge in your soul with addiction and there’s just no uprooting them. I would say that it is impossible. Not without God’s Love.

The resulting ‘schizophrenic’ backlash of the voices was an ordeal. And I’m off my medication. They made me take it, but now my Community Treatment Order has expired, and I am a free man. I’m so relieved and happy to be off anti-psychotic drugs. They never ever helped, apart from with sleep. Now I am awake at night, but I am not dumbed down. I am out of The Matrix. My imagination is far better. My Third Eye is clearer, more detailed. I’m star-gazing at night again. Most glorious praise to The Most High. He has promised me Heaven, and, from now on, I shall never forget it.

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.