Second Thoughts

This is going to be a somewhat direct interpretation of ‘second thoughts.’ Sorry if it doesn’t say very much at all… if anything. But it means a certain amount to me, so I thought I’d get some of it out there, off my chest. As much of it as I understand myself, anyway.

Ah, where do I start… second thoughts… Well, let’s just say, they have become a well-known and incessant demon of mine throughout the years. Also, they don’t just stop at being seconds, they go on and on. Multiplying countless times, over and over again, until they no longer resemble what they originally were. But new, unknowable, untamable demons altogether. Demons that cannot be seen inside. Demons that have no insides. No thoughts of their own. No weaknesses at first glance…

Though, we all know everything has its weakness, its kyrptonite. In real terms my ‘second thoughts’ are just a part of the dreadfuul overthinking that occurs within my mind many times each day. Telling me that my decsions are the wrong ones, questioning the authority I have over my own thoughts, the authority I have over my own mind in a wider sense.

I do not know why. I do not know where it all stems from.

I’m fixing it though, bit by bit. Or maybe fixing is the wrong term… patching, making myself waterproof – that sounds better. I don’t know how to do it. It is the biggest learning process of my life. The biggest thing I have ever undertaken, by far. But I do not let this puut me off. Imaging the person I might be at the end of it, the person I will develop into. That is a big goal to look towards. It holds some sway. Even if getting there is going to be mighty hard.

Second Thoughts

Diary Deconstruction and Darwinism

I write in my diary, journal… whatever you want to call it, on a semi-regular basis. I started probably just over a year ago. And I would say that it’s helped me greatly with… being myself, dealing with anxiety, and depression… life in general. A place where my thoughts exist without them actually being in the ‘real’ world. Much like this blog. I suppose it is a form of evolution. Diary Darwinism.

Anyway, some of the things I write in my diary:

  • Letters to people, only seen by my eyes.
  • Rants about anything and everything.
  • Writing ideas and general writing madness.
  • Massively private confessions
  • Things that wouldn’t translate to spoken words.
  • Things I wish for.
  • Musings on the world.
  • Incesent ramblings about people.
  • Self-improvement plans.
  • Self-hatred.
  • Things I neither approve of nor understand…

So, yeah, that’s it. And now here I am. My new ‘diary-kind-of-thing-blog-thing’ on here.

Diaryism!

You get it. I’m mad.

Tiny Stories – Through The Crowd

Through The Crowd


The day it rolled across our part of the country, we were eating Christmas dinner. The whole family was there. Laughing, having a few drinks, you know, the usual things a family does at that time of year. It was smiles and happiness all around.

Of course, that was before everything…

Now… here I am year later, among people I have known for only a short time, among a mass of sadness and depression. My family is gone, all of them, dead. I saw it with my own eyes, right at the table. There was no way anyone could have seen it coming. By the time the warnings went out, everyone was already gone.

Everyone but me… and a few select others.

I walked the streets alone, trawling through the stinking mass of bodies that littered every area, rendering no place clean, perpetually toxifying the air. I could do nothing but walk in a direction where I could be free of the oppression such death brought, free of the bodies I left behind still sat at the table. I felt terrible for that, but what else could I do? So, I kept going until I hit the country, far away enough to not smell the stench of death, or hear the buzzing of the flies. There, in the hills, the world was as it always was. Clean, normal. I tried to make myself believe that in the following days. I rationalised, told myself I was in a dream. I couldn’t believe something so terrible could happen in reality. Something so completely destructive.

One of the assistants ushers the line along. We slowly move like an endless, human caterpillar, always in continuous motion. I have my papers ready, as the people do around me. Some of them friends, some who I recognise, others who I like a lot less. However, we are all after the same thing, all heading in the same direction. We want safety, continuity, clean food and water. More than anything we want a return to normality, no matter what form it comes in, or how we get there. Humans are a civilisation built on strong culture and society, both of which we currently reside at zero.

A small stand hands people soup in tiny cone cups. I grab one, thankful for the warmth on this cold night, thankful that people have been good enough to do even this. Maybe there is still hope to be had. I pray that this might be true. The broth is sweet, and about the best thing I’ve had all week. Its steam rises, quickly condensing before vanishing into the dark. I can’t help but think we are all like that steam.

Nearing the checkpoint, and with soup in the bellies of the people, the atmosphere feels somewhat less impenetrable, less hostile. A quietened chatter fills the air. And unlike the stagnant, finished voices one normally hears out here, there is hope in and amongst the whispers. A hope that fills every aspect of our bodies. A will that things are going to be okay. A need for everything to work out in the end. Though, I sense people hang onto their pessimism, unsure of what the next corner might bring. Suspicious of anything that sounds too good to be true. People have walked long and far to get to this place, as I have too. Whatever caution we cling to has to be discarded, it is this or nothing. Life in there, or life out here. The latter is too hard a concept to grasp. It is no life. This isn’t living. Looking back, I can’t comprehend how I have lasted a year in that godforsaken land.

I hand the armed man at the checkpoint my papers. Papers which consist of nothing more than my name and age. He nods and I am huddled along through to another who pats me down, removing the knife from my belt and the pistol from my bag. I don’t protest. There has to rules, they are the bedrock of society.

I am here, at last.

They call it New Hope, which I think is an utterly ridiculous name. Nonetheless, it makes it hard to mistake what this place is. What it offers to all of us passing through its gates. We hope this is it… life, once again. We all need something to help us forget the past, what happened and what we’ve lost. For we have lost, so, so much.

I follow the people, grouping up with my friends. We glance at each other, filled to the brimĀ  with anxiety. And yet, beneath that there is a well of excitement and happiness. Because we know we will never be given a better chance. It is all or nothing.

We have to make this work, no matter what. It has to. For humanities sake. For our legacy.

 

Smoke of The Mind

I feel as though, a lot of the time my mind is clouded by a thick veil of smoke. As if, at any given moment the thoughts I have may not necessarily be in their purest form, in the truest way in which they should be felt.

Maybe it is nothing… maybe I am creating a presence in a wild need to ascribe a word to whatever it might be, an explanation to these mysterious feelings that often spend time troubling me.

There are times when I cannot think clearly. Times when my judgement and views towards things seem skewed in one way or the other. Times when the world itself seems to take on different shapes, egregious ones for the most part. Times when physically, my vision is blurred, when there is a dissonance between myself and the objects or people I am seeing. And scarily, times when the world/reality appears anything but real through my eyes and the workings that interpret them.

It is in and amongst this smoke where I reside, where I live my life to the best of my ability. And when it does clear, I am left wondering at what point in the future it might once again show its face. Left knowing that it is a certainty.

Yet, despite this, the smoke is my friend. On occasion, I get the sense it is obscuring my vision of certain things, purposefully locking away parts of myself it knows would be dangerous to lay eyes upon. So, maybe this is true, and maybe it isn’t. Maybe I am rationalising an otherwise completely irrational being.

I do not know.

Do I want to know?

Smoke

A ‘Banned’ Life

I don’t really like the word banned. Maybe that’s because of my use of it over the years.

I have a somewhat judgemental mind. Though, not towards others, but myself. Of course, my self confidence has always rested somewhere in the gutter. As sad as it is to say, in most regards, I don’t really like myself all that much. Obviously, this is something I want and need to change. And I have been trying!

There are many things I’ve ascribed the word BAN! to:

  • Anxiety
  • Sugary Drinks
  • Self-loathing
  • Shitty People
  • Depression
  • Fast Food
  • Short Hair
  • Nightmares
  • My Awful Facial Hair
  • Judgements
  • Wasting Time
  • Dubstep

Just to name a few……

The thing is, a word, a set of words, a sentance… it does and achieves nothing. Words for the most part mean very little when said to the voice inside our own heads. Ultimately they never stick. I tell myself all these things, the serious and the not-so-serious, and all it seems to do is reinforce the depressive feelings when I abrubtly break the promises I’ve made to myself, and the things I’ve said BANNED! to.

I’d like to live in a world where all these idealisms, these desires, would come true at the flip of a coin, at the thinking of a mere, singular word. But we don’t. And we can’t.

We’ve got to work with what me have. Make the best of it.

Banned