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Manifestos

Severed

“Perfect purity is possible if you turn your life into a line of poetry written with a splash of blood.”

Yukio Mishima

It has come to my attention that when I become lethargic and feel trapped in my mind that something is off.

There is something I’m not understanding, and therefore I have become disconnected from the truth.

How can I get back to the truth? By simply writing about it, without judgement?

Yes, this does seem to be the cure.

And so we begin, anew.

I have lived for almost 27 years now.

But really I stopped living around the age of 10, when my world began to fall apart.

I’ve examined this story before, and its truth did have a profound effect upon me

However . . . there are greater truths . . . the first being that this story doesn’t really exist.

Certainly not now, that is.

And yet it seems that the tumultuous nature of my past still claws its way into the present day.

Why?

Is it adaption? Am I living like a rat?

Have I trapped my sick self in a confused effort to self-quarantine?

The self is the greatest lie. And I desperately seek to live on a higher plane.

I do seek enlightenment, though I’m not sure I fully understand it yet.

It always seems like I’m chasing the moment, as if I’m but one step behind it.

And so it continues to outpace me. I continue to live the lie of self.

How can I have peace today? How can I have it now?

Am I kidding myself? Am I my own prisoner?

If I’m the creator of my own life, I haven’t been doing a very good job.

I want to be free like running water. What will this take?

Will it take the most extreme of measures?

This seems likely.

The Buddha was extreme. Jesus was extreme. Musashi was extreme. None of them sat on their laurels.

I must live in an inspired state. But how can I be inspired living as my self?

It doesn’t seem possible. And the only way I can float off is by being alone. Extreme solitude. And this isn’t always practical. Perhaps treating this as a prerequisite is more trouble than it’s worth.

The words came from my fingers: “It requires a person to lift their desk and throw it at their bookcase.”

Can I be this ruthless? Can I avoid backsliding?

The writing seems to help me understand my self more fully, allowing me to transcend it.

But when boredom sets in . . . and doubt forms its deathgrip, what is one to do? Recognize them as untruths?

Perhaps ruthless examination of the current state of my life is all that’s needed, to automatically move forward.

I just can’t keep doing this shit. I don’t know who I am anymore, or what I’m doing.

If I’m being honest, I’m not sure I even know where I am.

What am I doing here? Why am I living this way?

I know the world doesn’t care, and that neither should it.

But does God care? And am I God?

How could I rely upon a god to “make it better”.

Then where does my strength come from?

Why do I feel so trapped?

The world is vast. I’d like to see it all.

But would that really fix things? Would that end my struggle?

No . . .

Just surviving while on the run.

What am I running from?

My past. My image. All the needs.

I desperately want out. I desperately seek. And I still haven’t found it.

Is it really freedom from the need to be “happy”?

But how?

Is it happening now?

Well then why does it flip so easily, why do I get so rattled?

I can’t keep living in a cage.

But then what will I do?

To leave would have been perfect . . . I —— how could I do that?

My mind grows unhinged. Tonight was a failure no matter what.

There is no self control. The self is the self. Only the truth can help.

And so now what? There is nothing on the horizon. Devastation has taken place.

How to repent? To own this . . .

Perhaps everything just got to me tonight.

But I hate it. I hate that this is my life. I’m tired of being uninspired. I’m tired of the monotony.

Is it really all just attachment?

Am I clinging onto safety?

It seems my life up until this point has been played on defense. I walk the tight rope.

This is not the life I was meant to live. It is simply becoming unacceptable.

But the reality is the problem is me. My pride and pain and shame.

I hated most of my life growing up. There were moments of escape, but it was usually hell.

Is the self I’ve grown accustomed to? Is this who I continue to live as?

Why? Attachment? It must be so.

I need to be free like a bird.

I need to learn the REAL WAY to live in the moment.

For then my life will be pure.

But how?

HOW?

How can I redeem myself?

Why do I feel the need to?

I am not grateful for life.

For I squander it in Hell.

What is my purpose? I am the bringer of pain.

All I know is pain. All I cause is pain.

I no longer want to be me. But how could the mind just surrender its control?

How can I form a new mind?

My time for enlightenment will come.

When it comes.

I am a lost stranger in a strange time where all feels forgotten.

Time moves on and so do people. Cycles begin anew.

Nothing stays the same.

Do you remember the fads of the 90’s, and the hits of the decade after?

What do time capsules represent?

Pop culture, events of the past?

The only thing that exists is that which is fleeting. The only thing that exists is our mortality.

We cannot see past the needs of the day. Our struggles.

And so we live in relative misery.

Chasing keeps one’s attention for only so long.

Everyone is caught up to eventually.

All those things you obsess about . . .

What seems so important now . . .

Poof . . . gone.

And it all means nothing.

But don’t fret, there are more chases to fall in love with.

A death spiral’s still a death spiral.

Don’t act like I’m being grim, friend.

Do you truly know how you got here? Only a genius could tell stories such as yourself.

I am lost. And perhaps I’m considering remaining so.

Perhaps I will remain here in the foggy mist. And perhaps I will remain still when the sun comes to clear it all away.

Lost in time, with nowhere to go.

Is this freedom?

I do not know what time is, only that it separates you from the past.

As this separation takes place, grim things tend to happen.

It brings down families. It brings about age, illness, and death. It creates desperation.

Time is the reaper.

We are all lost strangers in time, thinking we know the way.

But we never really get to where we think we’re going.

My thoughts return to myself.

See how sickening that is? Remembering who you are, and the “problems” you have?

The anxiety created by identity is real.

I want nothing more than to be a lost stranger in time. To be at peace. To forget all about the silly attachments I have.

To be free . . .

Can I do it?

A dark cloud still hangs above me . . . But I hate the fact that I even care about it.

The frustration from within comes from a place I don’t yet fully understand.

I don’t think I can say I have a “good life” anymore without being disingenuous.

It’s easy to hate “me”.

So why do I continue being him?

Why not be the lost stranger in time?

Why not sit on a stump and watch it all happen around me?

I might have —— scratch that.

It’s possible, I know it. I just can’t do it as my “self”.

I have to become somebody else. It has to be a game.

“I’m just a lost stranger in time.”

Can I do it then?

Can I learn to let go of myself, before I destroy it?

My self is nothing to protect.

Nor anything to pity . . .

It’s had its chance and it blew it.

It’s time to become nobody . . .

To fall on my own sword.

To save myself.

To allow freedom.

And to stop this self-destruction.