dysphoria

can't communicate - cause, won't? what's there to be necessitated? turn down brightness to ebook reader safety, ok, cool - tweed department in sears. Would be failing diagonally. Constructions felt relevant until the vacuum was created, everything tense because in danger of being sucked out into void - arbitrary feelings, something could be relevant in humour shared - part of the pain is the not connecting, in a way superfluous to how it would matter to express anything right now. Auto correct finally algorithmatized the pattern I can't. Won't, don't necessitate it must be posted. Why apologize, can something be ok? Part of the pain is being in the state where it's awkward cause, taking everything so seriously, it means so much, it metabolizes to pain physically, the pain feedback loops to tell myself it must be amplified, the first thirty minutes are the hardest - i can't be authentic, authentic-ness is pure agony to be excised immediately, dear fucking diary, alright?

the next chapter in dextro diaries: in our hierarchy, there's a die cast, cast you off the die in that next plateau - there's a way to be in a plateau and not anywhere else necessary, it's pure getting through the moment virtuosity to make something, anything, with this painful plasma - fucking monster party mash-up meet-cute vape-meet of plain dealing plasma pizza purple people eaters. Feeling watched, not alone enough, missing that part of myself.

just typing is getting through the moment, getting to the next moment in time, surviving, even if the next moment is just another nightmare. IT'S not that bad, it's just that fucking hard to communicate any idea, or vector, flow from here to there...  THERE'S some way to record where it all makes sense and dreams shuffle into place like perfect sawfigures and pargonopers, when that didn't matter, when a way of life becomes to pretend and have realness equal fakeness, have the ideal be all there is, everything else becomes pain - can't you see the urge to press the panic button to phase pain into pleasure? i dunno.... it's fine, until it's not, can't it ever be fine? when it was i would write to proclaim it so, proclaim it fine, finery, fuckery, 

it's not to be shared, it's never to be unearthed, even if she was sharing a diary with me, it must be at a distance of thirty years and three hundred and thirty three feet, doesn't that make a perfect pattern! Nevermind ironies, if they're painful, blot them out through some act of will that hurts beyond etherized horizons.

all that could matter when pain pulses blotting out the moment, is that damn trumpet in the left channel - yeah, it's sounding like this now - in the name of skiing, I pronounce you void and void.

it's the guilt i can't name and am trying to banish, the hallucinations clawback, take their toll, the things i made fake that come back to bite me, saying it the way a stroke patient would, saying it unconsciously, except kinda in a creepy ghostly way conscious? could i presume to say? ah, cringe from power, any possibility is pain to be avoided at any cost, whatever much it pains me, i will annihilate pain - with more pain - slippery switch, my grip slipped.

profound unease, dissatisfaction, the only thing they offered me was a message that supposedly soothed marvin the paranoid android, written by god, "we apologize for the inconvenience" - i could go to a convent to meditate about that til the end of my life, not the end of time.

one thing i can say, it definitely helps to do something, play, write, record or not, instead of cringe, cling to nothing, try to do some normal behavioral thing that fits in the patterns of what i would do as that person i'm supposed to be, something other than this, why can it hurt so much, am i going to cringe from a static shock for the rest of my life? yes, just cringe, at all costs.

the last fucking thing i need to worry about right now is having to fix every goddamn thing in my life and the world right now... nevermind setting that to a beat - try to be on the right wavelength to enjoy cats - turn a blind eye - turn and turn and turn, eyed and eyed and eyed - pretend, try that on for size, plaster on a fake smile - keep smiling keep laughing keep playing the game - can only say it indirectly - don't like the psychic weather, wait a minute that may feel a millennia, don't judge yourself for being interested in this and not that right now, this is the best you can make of this situation, PSYCHE! haha, just kidding, you're failing and flailing, and KILLIN' IT MAN! You're being the best at this flail failure, it's the good ol' wellworn zen wobble.

Addendums: Trying to go to bed. Seeking lukewarm confort of benedrylirium. We can bond on the cuteness of the kitties, while being unlovable. Not like usual, or at least, not like usual in thinking it's being unlovable. Being the loveliest in a certain point of view. Bad time for a dark night of the soul. Is it ever a good time? Being compromised in ugly frozen positions, still realer than all important pretty patterns.

tried to write through the hell of withdrawing from one anti-depressant, cross-tapering to another, and having vaped an amount of thc oil that is normally manageable, but in that context fucked me up bad, near panic.