Rehab ilitation

Sherlock Holmes, Fox Mulder, all the weirdest characters are the ones that I can't help feeling more like than their counterparts, John Watson, Dana Scully and in some ways that makes a lot of sense because I am misanthropic, although I'm not sure if my subconcious has chosen the right word there.  You see from an early age I could spell lots of words, I knew their definitions, words made sense.

They made sense of the world for me, made sense to me, maybe I could place it as a lingering, strong unfluence (influence I meant to write, but I have to take the freudian slip for what it is) coming from my parents' love of improving their word score, the readers digest, my love of books, bookishness, worlds within worlds, fiction, non fiction, science fiction, science non fiction, although the use of the word fictional and non-fictional has little bearing in a world that itself appears more and more to be just that.  A fiction.  Fiction, friction, fiction, fiction, fiction, the way a word will lose its meaning when you say it over and over again, as we lose our grasp of its meaning, its sense of solidity when we do that, when we insist on going over and over something, obsessions, obsessive thinking, actions, behaviours, habits, habit forming, forming words, forming a sense of the world itself.

So yes in many ways i am a misanthrope, assuming that's the word I was grasping for to put some meaning into the feeling behind the phrases, the palette of colourful language I intend to pretend to grasp, pretend to have a feeling of needing to express, or perhaps I really do, sense something.

Repetitive, repeating the use of words, normally it's a bad thing, you're supposed not to do that.

When you write, it's best normally not to repeat the same words, phrases because it leaves the audience with the feeling that they've already read it, already done that part, they get confused, lose their track, i do that, did that, lost my train of thought, lost the training from conditioning, from schooling, from the normal rational way of doing things, I began to feel my way, I've always struggled with making decisions because I can't see the difference between choices, between options, they both seem sensible, shall we do this or that?  Shall we go here or there?  Unless I could feel which was the better path, I couldn't make up my mind.  So I went with the normal way openly, but privately I didn't, privately in my own mind, in my own little world where I've lived for so long.

Unable to hold a normal conversation, because I am not interested in what other people say, I am, if it informs my little world, if I can learn more about what it is to be a human being, if I can use whatever I gather to help me to be more normal, but should I wish that?  Really?  Shouldn't I just try to be the best me that I can?  When someone asked me a question like how are you?  I would reply but not return the favour, unfavourably I would just say I'm fine thanks, goodbye, because conversation feels threatening to me, unless my inhibitions are gone, to go through the small talk to get to the crux.

To get to the reason we are communicating, to find out what they can learn from me and me them.

That's what every encounter is about, if only the small talk were more expansive, if only it didn't involve me getting to know more about people I feel possibly irrationally there is very little point in me getting to know, because our relationship will be short, our friendship, their life, my life.

Everybody dies, perhaps that's it, grief as I've posited before, as I've openly expressed it before, the death of a close relative, who I barely knew, I barely know anyone, really, from my perspective I really don't, people say things about others, because they feel it, they feel close to them, they know more about them, because they talk about meaningless nonsense together, they talk about things, they converse and conversely I don't, I shy away from connection, I shy away, I shy, shy shy shy shy shy.

I once said I was shy and someone close to me seemed to think that was a novel way to describe me.

Or at least the nuance, the little things that I notice, the underlying sentiments, the underlying, the lying, the constant lying, because people won't say what they mean, they talk in subtext and so I am nonplussed, unable to read between the lions, lines, lions, the lines, between the lines, underlines.

I guess it's some form of disorder, some form of lack of social skills, a form of lack of connection.

Then I go out, I get passed my inhibitions, I naturally am outgoing, love to meet new people, because those relationships are exciting the brief encounters for an important reason, the fact that it's new, they don't know me, they won't get to know me, I can do whatever it is we both need to learn, see, hear, feel, I can do it then, but not when the pressure of expectation builds, I'm expecting them to die.

Soon, I wonder about impermanence, about why people buy things they will never use, rarely then.

I wonder why people bother with so many things and it's frustrating because romantic relationships, friendships is a better way to describe what I think of as the sort of connections that would lead to that, closeness, sex, intimacy rather, intimacy not sex, intimacy, cuddling, kissing, holding, close.

I can already see the end, the reason why things won't work, the breakup, the failure for me to makeup, the failure of me to be a man, have the courage to talk, to say the things I want to.

It's a vicious cycle, circle, circular reasoning, fear, fear, fear, dear, dear, dear, dear me, if only.

Blah blah blah wa wa wa babababa black sheep, wank sheep, oh well, that was fun.

Writing words, spelling, writing spells, shells, sea shells, unexploded second world war shells.

Dug up on a beach in omaha, rather omaha beach, or one of those renamed monstrosities of the second world war in france, where on a school trip we, they, dived to a sunken landing craft and recovered, unexploded shells, brought them home despite a thorough search by french customs.

After returning home, the bomb squad or rather two police officers came to our door.

Have you got any shells?  Did you bring any back from france they said?

Yes.  I'll go and get them.  Beautiful they were, not sure I still have them.

You know the sort that kids find and take home, to listen to the sea in.

I was the innocent, the scared one, the afraid one, the little one, me.

But I don't remember being the scared, I didn't know enough to be.

Blown up by the bomb squad, army whatevers, my friends shells.

Mortars whatever they were, I think I might have had a pen.

The ones where the lady undresses when you hold it right.

Sex, sex, sex, women, friends, female friends, I miss em.

I've found the source of my misanthropy, it's women.

It's a woman, the divine feminine, the part of me.

The part that feels female, the part of me that is.

The part I used to explore, endure, now openly.

Openly experienced, the morays of society.

The failures to celebrate womanhood.

The failure of society to be whole.

The failure to celebrate us all.

To have leaders at all
the least of us
ruling over
the rest.

Full Stop...

End.

x

I miss how being around my female friends always made me feel like a better person, I miss the soothing nature of those relationships, the feeling of being known, understood, women do that.