My Too (Many) Cents

This was done as part of a term paper asking me to differentiate and make claims about the specific differences between the given holocaust media we engaged with in class. Introduction To understand how these stories are different, the method I seek to utilize is to generalize how any two stories may be differentiated and then adapt that understanding to the specific particularities of the stories under consideration. In its most general form, any semantically coherent unit of utterances can be likened to a story; We choose to focus our intentionality on a specific subset of the infinity of qualia in Human Experience. In that choice of recounting an experience one way instead of the other, we are telling a story - how we as narrators and humans choose to define and communicate ourselves to others given that they can never understand the full particularity of our being. But this definition is too general, and it needs to be honed in further to actually be of substance. To demonstrate th...

My younger self has saved me multiple times. Every single time I decided to stay with my thoughts and emotions and digest them and understand them, it has been an act of rebellion against the superficiality of society. That is not to say I am perfect. I've struggled with porn because my body likes that it helps me soothe my anxiety, probably undiagnosed ADHD and my intense self hatred for maybe 7 years now. I fall and fall and fall again. It was why I was and am terribly afraid of substances. There is a beautiful perspective on life inside me. Every time someone succeeds in a way that makes me curse my circumstances or consider selling out, Every time the way I think hurts me instead of helping me, मैं  उसे कोसता हूँ । It seems to me like the world is telling me that there's no space for you here. Why not optimize yourself? Why not be a superficial asshole, or an intellectual masturbator? And yet there's a ray of truth that has spoken to me even in those nights spent alone ...

 oh hey. you're here again. looking out of a car window. obsessively overthinking some random detail as the city lights and mundane chatter blend in with the smog into a panoramic cocktail of absolute apathy. wanting to kill yourself just a little tasteful amount. to experiment with the idea and the fun of it, but not enough to consider it seriously. Just a little swig of that exquisite wine. Just a little whiff of lady death's pussy. Toying with the idea to show yourself how little you value yourself. Why are we worrying about whether we may have been born a woman?  Or whether you're bipolar or some shit. Like really crazy cuckoo shit.. There's some part of me that knows its just an escape. Or a more sinister capitalist plot to regulate the spectrum of human emotions to mitigate risk (make more money for richer people). Why are we worrying about buddhism and communism? You ain't gonna be no buddha or lead no revolution. Your consciousness is about as false as it ge...

 what happens to a thought deferred? does it fester and explode? I have been coming to accept my creed as a writer slightly more through my practice of writing to understand myself everyday. I'm only up to 87 out of 10000 punches of gratitude here. And yet slowly I am coming to realise that my mind goes out into the wild everyday to forage for thoughts. And perhaps those twisting caverns of the psyche I explore, which would cause insanity to others trying to navigate. are valuable in themselves.  so here, I want to talk about an understanding that has been developing but has not yet fully matured inside me.  Fear fear is the mind killer. and not because a dune quote said it, but because it limits the flowering of our imagination. It is the ceiling on the caverns of our thought. it is something that keeps us stuck into thought loops in the future, cowering from the fire of this present moment.  Life is alchemy. It is transforming the basic human we inhabit, distilling...

 Welcome to Midnight Hysteria. Not my Poetry blog but rather the feeling, or the state of frenzy it was meant to express.  There's a restlessness that resides within me. It is a feeling I felt again today after a long time. the product of a mediocre, aimless day, powerful philosophical ideas, a lack of self control over my hedonic pathways, a self deception about the consequences of my actions that couples together into an amazing cocktail of artistry, self-hatred and romanticization.  Each motion of my thought is so rigid it threatens to choke me. Yet the creative self destruction, the tribute to which is every drop of happiness in my neural circuits is crying so hard for expression that it just cannot be compromized with.  In the friction of these two opposites, are published incredibly self aware, bittery sarcastic, utterly pretentious streams of thought. I find it disgusting honestly, yet I find it impossible to not express them.  The charcter of my philosop...

 I was trying to draw a deathbat from Hail to the King when your subtle remark reminded me that my sense of view had been twisted and my eyes had been deceived. Why was it that I had not been able to see a simple observation? As I probed deeper into that feeling, my sense of perception morphed around me. There was creative goo there that did not yet have the requisite skill to stand under focused attention. I brushed up against pure chaos; A will for expression without an outlet. It pushed up against the inside of my head and yet could not yet find an expression in strokes on a page. And so it now finds itself in the words of a blog.  What is art? It is too broad a question. My mind jumps to find a reflexive answer that seems unassailable enough that my rational mind won't want to dissect it.  Art is a phenomenological orientation to reality. It is what I see when I look at your eyes. Into the pupils inside as they expand and contract, breathing the air and moisture throu...

 I set aside my phone and close all the tabs that dig the fingers of distraction into my skull. I have a rough idea of what I want to write about, a stew of thoughts that has been churning in my head for the past couple of days. I do not quite know what the end result will look like, of what styles may be played with. Right now it is a stream of consciousness bursting at the seams. The rhythm of my writing unloads its anxiety  onto this page, and as I see flashes of the old me in this writing style I want to move slowly from it.  To more spacing. More breath. More cadence.  From veins that bulge as one tries to hit a high note in a song, to a gentle mellow baritone rising from the depth of my diaphragm.  Discipline and Freedom is one of my favourite duality to confront. All the metaphors - of the masculine, order, logos seem stale. For in the recent past I have given in to the feminine. Given in to love. There is a discipline borne out of anxiety - one that sees...