Addiction To Thought

This has occurred to me several times, but perhaps it's now becoming clearest. I am addicted to thinking, and having seen what addictions can do to people, both indirectly in the media, and directly in the people that surround me, I've attempted to stay away from such external things so as to lead a more balanced life, perhaps set an example to others so that they themselves can see that they don't have to live that way. And perhaps it appears fine, from the outside, but from the inside it has not been the same peaceful picture of perfection.

The truth is, I struggle with thinking because it is my drug. It is strange to call it that because it isn't exactly some substance I feed on, but it's one I know I'm addicted to because it's so difficult to stop it. Even writing this is made difficult by the desire to make it sound good so that it can be read by people and understood and appreciated. But I will attempt to simply let my thoughts flow like a stream of consciousness, without feeding the need to be special.

Thinking is addictive. It gives me a quick-fire feeling that I am doing something. It validates me. Just like receiving a text or receiving a Facebook notification, a thought reminds me that I am alive, and there is something to acknowledge. Often, these thoughts are not positive, because if they were they would not be a bother and they would not come seemingly incessantly. I could describe it as a bombardment of sorts, thoughts coming in and landing without much care as to where, in my field of attention. As each one appears, it demands I listen to it, and if it sounds remotely believable in what it is about, it joins the cycle of consideration where it says what it says and then I hardly have time to decide if it's true or not because there's another thought on its way, usually on the same wavelength. This happens with negative thoughts.

An example: I often get the thought, when I go on Facebook, that other people's lives that I see pop up in my news feed, either through photos or through status updates or just conversations, are much richer and funner than mine. I cannot prove this, and I would not prove this, because it's a comparison based on nothing but my own feeling of inadequacy with my own life, that I'm not good enough in the eyes of others or that I'm not really worth their time because they clearly aren't having that fun with me. When I get this thought, my mind shifts into a sort of 'victim-mentality', where I tell myself that others have not looked at me honestly and considered me for what I am worth, i.e. they have judged me for what I am not. This necessarily implies that I have been attacked by them, in my mind, often taking the form of abandonment feelings or perceived exclusion. This is a lie, of course. I cannot possibly know if those faces that come up on the news feed would ever think like this, and even if they could, I doubt I'd ever done anything to deserve such cruel punishment. But my mind, enslaved in its dreams of doom, chooses to not to doubt the dream's reality and pursues an agenda of thought that reinforces the pain I feel. And so, I get thoughts that say I am unworthy, followed by ones doubting whether I really matter to the people that know me, whether my being in their lives really has any meaning beyond appearances. The thoughts usually center around particular individuals who my mind sees as worse enemies because they have betrayed my trust in not giving me the attention that I desired. They don't deserve this, not by any means. I recognise this now, because I am calm, yet in the moment, it is not as easy to discern this truth from the wall of lies that consistently put me down and swallow my attention. The impression remains once I get off the computer, kept alive by the talking in my head, telling me I'm not good enough. And I, well, believe it.

It isn't true. I tell myself this yet I wish I would believe it. There is still a part of me, that refuses to accept that even though people are not 100% in contact with me all the time, they have not abandoned me. I feel this too often though, and it is strengthened through a domino-effect of thought after thought of negative affirmations. In the case of this thought, many different reactions are possible - one could simply dismiss the thought and laugh at what it says, though I fear to do that due to not wanting to risk my pride swelling. One could indulge in drink/food/alcohol/substance in order to take their mind off the thinking. I chose avoid the ceasefire so as to drive myself insane via an internal war, a war of voices and shouting. Thoughts come and fight against other thoughts to decide on truth, as if truth hadn't already been decided. But it's like they don't want to know the truth, they just want to fight amongst themselves because at least in this way they seem to have meaning, even for the short while while they're causing me suffering.

I'm addicted to the thoughts because I don't know yet how to decide what is true and what is false. "A Course In Miracles" says that is not my job to decide, and I would graciously accept that, if I didn't believe that my ego needed to know things and could know such things too. But it in itself is false, so it'll never tell me the truth anyway. The arguments for keeping it are absurd and do not work, yet they are kept because they are kept hidden in my mind, away from the eyes of others and away from mine too. What would I do if I'd lost my ego? I'd probably live a much happier life anyway, free of cares and worries. But, there's a but. I'd have no secrets, no need for them. No shame. No embarrassment. No barriers. And thus the ego would have no meaning, and without meaning, my existence would be... meaningless? I am more than my ego, but my ego says it is necessary for functionality in this world. I don't wholly believe that, but I believe it more than not, since I haven't yet been proven otherwise.

Thinking is a form of security, protection. Against what? Against being taken over, against the reality that I'm not really in control of my life. Yet this protection limits my potential so so enormously that life becomes a scrap of damaged experiencing. Not worth it, I've told myself sometimes. I need to stop this thinking. I need to. Must. And I don't know how, but I need to do it, otherwise I won't be able to connect with anyone or anything because I'll always be blocked off by illusions and pain.

So in writing this, is my question, my call for help to God, the universe. I am here, not of this earth, but on it, for some purpose. I do not know what it is, though I could think about it and not find it. The truth is, I resort to thinking too often because I don't trust in the connection I have with You. That's to say, I don't trust You. I want to though, because I sure ain't happy trusting in myself and my personal version of hell. Help me out. I want release from my illusions and I want to see the world as it is, others as they are. I need to let go of my thoughts in order for this to happen, and I envision that will be soon, at this rate. Please be there to catch me, with a cloud or something, then take my hand, firmly, and show me the way back to You.

A Letter With No Address, To You

Dear,

We may have met, or maybe yet to have. But know from the get-go, that I am not going to be your everything. That's an expectation that, while my ego would love to fulfill, is not one that I can. I am who I am, and I've walked where I have walked, and I will try not to point to my footprints when we meet, but if you see them behind me, and you ask me about them, I will tell you where I have trodden. I will be honest. I will be. There is no other way for love to discover us unless we are open about where we have been, what doors we have closed, but most importantly which ones we have left open so that the breeze and the sunlight can have passed through.

Do not hold on to me. I won't to you. If there is pull, and there would be if it would be love, we will come together and celebrate our oneness. And why not go for long walks on the beach, or talk 'til dawn, or cuddle and kiss and look into each other's eyes as if we were looking into sincerity? I can play with your hair, you can play with my lashes. You can dream, and I can dream, but let's not hold on to what we've done or what we make up. Let footprints be, but let's celebrate now, what we are, together as one, beyond what we may look like to each other.

Love will find us. This, I know.

Be ready.

Brief Transition

Out of my personalised sopor I awaken;
out of a shell's worth of pieces unbroken
I hear these words being spoken,
reminders of happiness' little tree-like
veins reaching within from the extremities
to that bulging center of importance beating,
serenely, supremely succinctly,
undisturbing any appetite I may have had
for teeming, killing, suffocating, dreaming.

Repercussions, I accept
before any all secrets are unkept
and naked, I stand unkempt,
but am I free, I am free, free to feel
how it feels to feel free without feeling
a freak fleeing fear, me, upset by what has been set up,
ere stolid now solid,
but such gauze, such a window,
such a veil blowing in the wind,
such a flag, glad to be waving and saluting
to the laconic riposte of the sails on the road.

I travel, through blueprints voyage do I,
chalking a trail of words and compliments
and a backlog of unused breath mints
still on the counter, still,
like silence,
still weeping
across the bow of the horizon,
for the telling of love.

An ethereal head on an ephemeral pillow, I am,
I do, unthink
unblink
return to sender my post
a bird's nest I host
as I wake up to the scent of dust in the dehumidifier;
on
I turn myself, too;
I do keep a tumor of nerve endings
on a spot of space just beneath my skin,
just so that the day can pass through.

The Time After Sleep

Thoughts belong to memory, yesterdays kept
Safe in the minds of those who dreamed while they slept,
Preserved by empty lines, wanting substance. Except,
When truth saw morning, they looked away and wept,
Having spilled ink on their clouds, unable to accept
Their folly. Nowhere fear fogged. In, the mists crept.

With that haze, terror down the storm drain crept.
It spilled ferociousness, flooded tunnels that kept
The calm intact, yet not for eyes to accept
That burdened the wanderer while they slept
Unsoundly in a twisting sopor. Any wept,
Windswept, subservient to villainy, except

Hanging by a thread exempt from torture, except
That buoyant rain-defying ring. A curtain crept
Across the window, yet while the welkin wept
Was there left enough tranquility, kempt kept
For an advent. Among the musing of the slept,
Lived beyond reminders, that which they would accept.

It happened when the sun eagered to accept
The yonder's invitation. What was except
Before first light, was undone afore minds slept
And outside life's palms did they believe they crept.
They but forgot who them had begot and kept
In joy. For that remembrance they wept.

In a symbolic gest, had the firmament wept
To imitate the gloom of refusing to accept
Responsibility for the fanged pets minds kept
Out of sight. So the world was poured misery, except
Its cup had a chip through which suffering crept,
Leaking into estuaries while minds slept.

Poison diluted, life did not die. They slept
Beside each other, sharing spare hope, and wept
For their mistakes, until a glance of light crept
Into their eyes, forgiveness, yearning to accept
Their tempest as a passed zephyr. Except
This memory, only verity was kept.

Minds have ere slept and in waking, taught to accept
The traces of tears they wept. There was no loss except
Of the channels in which hollowness crept. Such thoughts, only memory kept.

Repressed

I am obviously hiding.
I try to find the forest inside the book so I
Can rediscover the mists where I dreamed I
Was not fictional.
I haven't yet found that familiar path I
Carved through the paper and roots I
Left behind.

I am clearly hiding.
I wish to discover a fountain with a gurgle I
Can capture with cupped palms so I
Can be reassured.
I walk among the wisps of light I
So dearly wish to be seen by but I
Flicker.

Phoenix In Flight

When there's a piece you hide inside,
You don't know anything, anything
About the world outside your emptiness.
Hearing shot whispers, voices bellowing
Are cries of fear of being loved
For who you are, for who you are,
For who this damn confusion knows its spark.

And something tells me you won't know,
You won't care less to know what's right
Unless you break the chains that you're still tying yourself in.
Please, don't give up the fight now,
There's a guiding light, a path for you to take
And that's the way the wind is blowing
That's the way your love is flowing, away.

Cruelty keeps a place of hate in the abyss
Where your heart once used to be, to belong,
And it doesn't want you to come back, it doesn't want you at all.
But it needs you to survive
The pain you kept inside it wants too,
Yet you have to make the livid choice
To live or die by prayers you make, for your sake.

How do I know,
That you'll be here,
When I come back?
You'll still be near
And not fall away
Not broken
Not shattered
Not ashamed
Not in pain
But okay. Okay.

'Til then you might only peace undisturbed
But yours certainly will be tainted.
You can't run away forever
And you can't light all speed.
You have to take your chances
And throw them all into your fire
Out of the sparkles and heat
Will come alive, again, a bird.
As it flies away, you'll be on its back
And you'll spend the life together,
No ashes will carry in the wind
That's tearing your dreams apart.

Oh, don't confuse yourself any further
Truth is but a wingspan away
Bring it into the horizon,
And let it shine the darkness into day.

Come. It's time.

Somewhere Over The Rainbow

Have you ever been told by a day that the world is your oyster, it keeps itself together and it won't fall apart? In the moments that pass, know that there is a chance to redeem all that you've lost. I do believe in substance, in the forwards backing truth, and there's an idea that speaks in the past like a wheel. It turns. Some call it the eclipse, some the sands of time, some aren't quite aware of it. Regardless, it spins, and out comes a web that we all are tangled in, not trapped in the sense that we yearn to escape, but free because the web protects us from what is not real. Rest assured, you shall not asphyxiate because the web grows larger by the moment, always expanding, always growing. Will it collapse upon itself one day? Irrelevant, until it isn't.

Somewhere over the rainbow, skies are blue. And, those dreams that you dare to dream, really do come true.

Something tells me the rainbow is somewhere behind me. I stand here, where else but here? And that dream that I dared to dream has come true. Happiness, is unfolding itself within me and this places the rainbow behind me. I can always turn back to look at it and admire the hope that it gives, and remind myself of the days when it did offer me hope. When it signed itself as a guide, a myriad of lights playing in the rain, it shone. I followed, step by step, until I went over the rainbow. It hasn't stopped raining, and I am closer to basking in the rays of heaven as they glow a larger and larger halo through the clouds in the firmament. It's wonderful. Mysterious, but a known mystery, a reminder that I've been here before and am simply welcomed back. It hasn't changed one bit, nor should I expect peace to do that.

I like it here. This too shall pass. D'accord.

Peace.

Looking Up

Living here, in this brand new world, might be a fantasy. But it taught me to love, so it's real, real, real to me. And I've learned we must look, look inside our hearts to find, yeah, a world full of love, like yours, home. Such a place I've tried to find for a long while, I've tried to locate where my heart was. Some find it in precarious places like their birthplace, some discover its existence in the remote reaches of a dream and from then on go on the search for that dream. Some Google it and get 100,000 results. Some seek and find what they are asking for. Some don't ask for what they really want, and get that which they ask for. The subsequent results indicate that it's somewhere elsewhere where I haven't looked previously. It's not complex. When I feel apart, I am not.

It's now that I see. It's clear to me that home is where the heart is, not because one feels an attachment to where the heart might be focused on, but because home is always here. I go on journeys of discovery to find places I belong to. Where do I descend from? Who are the people I have originated from? This leads me to new paths, new worlds, some traveled, some unexplored, some ancient, some untouched, some inexistent, some on the edge of exception. It's a compelling search, the search for home. I look at the yonder and wonder. Clouds mourn their lamentations and it rains, and I am scared to look up further. Then it stops and I look up again. Awaiting the lament.

To stand outside when it's raining
When it's pouring
Up I'm looking
Up I wish to be looking
To meaning
To being
To being myself,
To healing
Towards what I'm praying
About what I'm feeling
To what I could be seeing
If I was looking
While it was raining.

Home. It's where the heart is. It's here.

I seem to like to twist the idea and play with it around so that I can see it from different angles so I can understand it. Really, it's quite simple. There is no hidden message hidden in the obvious. The rain is symbolic for the 'tough' times where we forget to forgive. I am learning now. Thank you. To look up when it rains, to see that the world is not blanketed in darkness. There is light, because the light that shines upon me comes from within.

A Stanza Of Regret, To One Of Realisation

It doesn't matter what I do
It doesn't matter what I say
It doesn't mean anything
To be the one that saves the day.
I could fall for you, but I won't
The story's been left unwritten
So the author's who you choose to be,
The one that doesn't hope to be forgotten.

I could trip on my own desires
Fluttering on some dream of mine
Blinded by what I think is sight,
Seeing hearts reflected in lost time.
It could be a different world
In which we fear love and run,
But the day has come today to be
True to what we've been given.

Loss Sung By Somebody

Singing a song like this makes me smile
For I know you're smiling beneath as well.
In the morning light we lie there a while
Your hand in mine, you break through your shell.

Oh, we are waves
Meeting at the seams
Crossing in complete formation
The love that sees
Us come together as one.

Oh, we float above
The shores of sentiment
Hearts untied and bold and true
I can let go
Knowing I won't lose you.

Words are spoken like the past smoke
And the mirrors go along with them.
What truth is there, near our own oak
By our campfire, roasting love again?

Oh, carry on without
The burdens of my memory,
It may lead you to a brighter day
One without
Choruses and bridges over what we say.

Oh, catch the stars
In their wishful magnificence
For they may grant life to your dreams
That you dream
On a night where nothing's what it seems.

Stir within the confines of this scorned jail cell
Betray no secret that has dawned on you to keep,
Unfold the corners of the letter written to tell
Me of your truth, your decision made to made me weep.

Oh, how do cards
Arrange themselves in such a hand
That any move will split the heart twofold
And blood will drain
Leaking into rivers, into seas of love and gold?

Oh, why do hearts
Guide us into memories together
Where we are denied a new chapter to our story
Because it is done,
This irreversible undoing I had never wanted you to see?

Emotional Brick

From my perch against the wall on my bed, I see the clock. The clock is asleep. Against the white background, the numbers and lines almost impose themselves into my view, watching. Each second, the long black line matches up with one of the short lines, and my memory of the movement from what was to what is chains my gaze and slowly turns my insides. Yet I notice the light reflected in the convex transparent plastic that shields the numbers from escape. The lamp on the ceiling, there, it glows, and you can see a halo around the light bulb's light.

Meaninglessness? Take your vegetable from the pile and carry it around with you. You may like to eat it, but maybe not. I've got this emotional brick heaved upon my chest. I don't quite know how to remove it. Its chemical make-up is not something I learned about when I did science in high school, so I'm trying to make up for that now. The sentiment is round, with uncertain borders. Those blurred distinctions between the emotion and the beyond makes me feel like somehow I am connected past my body. What does it feel like, you may ask? Hold your chosen vegetable in hand while you read below.

Palms, hands, of a person you love are pressed on top of each other, on top of your chest. CPR? Seems like it at first by the initial pressure, but this misperception is quickly dispelled as you realise the hands are not coming back up. Held down they slowly are crushing the field of my body. Pulses, from lighter to stronger back to lighter then the dial turns back on stronger and it's jammed. Why? Why do they want to cut your breath? What is it that they want from you? Will your death solve any problem in their life? The questions come but aren't verbalised when you realise that it shall not be a quick kill. I never wanted it to be a death in the first place, just idyllic heroism. It seems that tape I recorded for myself is bringing itself into the world in the form of emotional pressure - since it never took a tangible form. The energy has to go somewhere, and this is where - in the hands of the one you tried to save, trying to save you, because you want them to care so much for you that the emotional brick presses harder the more you think about it. Such weight, and only from a desire to be wanted. In my idealised dream-like scenario, I save the person, I am the hero, and they are grateful. But I am not, it is not enough, so I have to rewind and re-record what happens again, to add a touch of drama, a tinge of emotion, a hue of magic here and there and whatever song I painted can be displayed on my headboard. A failed wish. It's not satisfying, the fake, the illusory. The reality of it cannot exist, but I would have liked it to. Consciously, I do not wish it real, and I know I could not. Unconsciously, I dream and the tape repeats, each time slightly altered but the same heroic features are present. It's draining to believe something is real when it is not. The result of my fantasy, my fiction? This emotional brick, appearing lovingly human, is in fact nothing but an illusion created by me to satisfy an unexpressed-until-recently desire. Connection, love... Dreams do not become reality - something unreal may not become real, for they are of different Orders of Reality - of which only one actually is real. Reality becomes reality. If I can dream it up, reality responds with the feelings. Created to address the unreal, the energy is built and not expelled because it is unfulfilled. Those hands pressing down on my chest, then, are pushing down only because I refuse to let go of the dream, to let them dissipate and be fulfilled. I take a breath now.

It's scary, you know. It makes you feel trapped, violated, in need. In need of saving, specifically, by the bearer of those hands. Fantasy is dramatic - it pretends to know reality after all, but there is no drama in reality because there is but truth. They cannot coexist. Nothing cannot fit into all. Until we learn that, the bricks keep on pressing onto our souls, squeezing us into giving up believing into what is unreal. When we do let go, there will never have been a brick.

How do you like that carrot now? You may eat the potato now in case you haven't already started - it is cooked well, fret not about that.

How do I let go? Theoretically I can hold on until I cannot survive the pain any longer, but there is a much simpler method. Align yourself with God. Therein is your answer.

A Glimpse From Above

High up in the air, she floats. She's looking down at the world, the little worker ants in their presentable suits carrying suitcases filled with information. Swarms of them flock into the high rise buildings which other ants built by carrying small materials from other premises and arranging them in an orderly fashion. Oh, they're all artists. She's one too, but today she's dreaming. From above, she observes masterpieces being given meaning and usage. And as she sees this, she's watching the greater masterpiece at work, being painted, and she's giving meaning to the strokes of wisdom and inspiration, the intricate brushwork, the careful attention, the scintillating glint in eyes. Watch as the blinking of a neon light flashes in corneas, in irises, in pupils. Happiness... is but a glint in their eyes. She smiles as she realises that ants can be happy, even if only for a moment before the sparkle is erased by the shadow of the incoming puppeteers. They loom over the ants, glaring at them to do their work, not to think, but to produce, to build, to erect. And as the massive stick prods the ground near them, they scatter at lightning speed in a rush, heads down, thumbs up, zombies. The rise of the dead - troubled sleep - makes her frown in confusion. She, herself, is but a marionette, but today she knows it which is why she's high. And any moment now, the balloon will pop, her heart will sink, and she'll fall once more into the symbolism of ants. But for her, an imprint from her sight, will remain and she will stir. This sliver of a memory, casts doubt over the shadows she is in, not because she's getting lost, but because the light is showing her the way out, for light dispels darkness. Or more correctly, light dispels the illusion of darkness.

She begins her journey of liberty.

Rêve(lation)

All alone then, I had to find some meaning
All alone I, sat down and cried.
All alone I, never found that meaning,
In the center of the pain I held inside.

I ask myself, why, I do what I do.

Outside my mind there's places I've never been
And walking in those worlds I'd never be seen
For people are sleeping, people are blind
In circles they run, out of their mind.

This dream we think we're living
Crosses worlds that are ephemeral.
We try to find its meaning
But we are sleepwalkers in peril.

Oh, where are we going
But the same places again
That we have never left...
When we walk and we are not awake
We're lost in our own space
Getting to each and every race
To win
Nothing.
N o t h i n g.

But we are determined to see
And so we shall
And the walls will crumble
And the seas will flood
And the winds will gust
And the world will fall
And our dream will end
And we'll wake up
And smile.