Alive; Dead. Thrill; Dread.
The Bad and Ugly create the Good. It is the experiencer that builds his experience by exploring The Range.
___.—.—_____..——.-..-____…—……___—-….
Excuse the braille. My attorney recommends being more inclusive to one underrepresented group.
Readers words from Everyday Hijinks:
“Your writing reawakened my fascist tendencies” - Ed. Be careful out there Ed, they’re headhunting those like you (us).
“Another great piece. Invigorating. Stimulating. Absolutely brimming with life”- Cutter N. Thanks Cutman. Slonk a raw egg, or 7, for me.
“Manic, sublime. Currently fighting the desire to impregnate a lesbian” - Eric. I believe we shouldn’t fight desires and I hope you name the first born, Winston. Godspeed.
I can't see where you’re comin' from
But I know just what you’re runnin' from
I ate a bunch of poison yesterday and hallucinated. There are strange fruit trees in my beach town laying away, hidden beside thirsty streams. This happened abroad once. In Jamaica my tongue was swollen for 48 hours because I ate random fruit. To this day I haven’t found out what kind it was.
The poison, I had nightmares all night because of this. Vivid scenes of being choked but not seeing the abuser. Crystal clear episodes of speaking to people with no face, pleading to be heard until they all grab me at once! They pull me into dark corridor and now, wishes granted, the speak. They answer every question I’ve ever had.
Every time I wake I speak out loud, Calling Jesus for protection. This is why I don’t fear - Instead I’ve learned to enjoy my nightmares. Ethereal dreams, unnatural & heavenly scenes are best, followed by Nightmares, which are better than nothing.
& I want to dive into this. This philopshy of Bad - low, sad, feeling anything - being better than nothing:
DO YOU EVER FEEL YOU HAVE THOUGHTS, IDEAS, EMOTIONS THAT HUMAN, PAGAN WORDS DON’T ACCURATELY CAPTURE?
I didn’t feel an emotion until 19 years old. It was like getting punched in the nose. Blood drenched nostrils analogous to a feeling soaked limbic system. That was years ago and I still remember how time stopped, hairs on my arm flared, and everything got 3 shades more vibrant. It was terrifying. I was sober.
Now I see wild-eyed fear, confusion when Maria watches me feel. I see calm, understood expressions as people connect with me. I see their questioning eyes lower as they attempt to compute, to bottle, capture volatility in a human language.
I need to be strangled to more closely understand breath. Have my windpipes squeezed to be more grateful for air.
I need Death near to better understand Life.
I need piercing Screams to appreciate Silence.
I need head spinning Chaos to feel Peace.
I need to be Loved and Hated. Both.
At all times.
What I want is to experience my range in totality.
I need death, the closeness of it, 130mph car rides eyes closed for 2 seconds, then 3, 4, because without getting near this line I don’t know what being Alive feels like. To hike up a mountain and not stand with toes, half feet, over the cliff edge is to defeat the whole purpose. I’m racing to meet my Maker but until he allows me to join in Heaven, I chase every human emotion, high and low, like lion gunning for gazelle.
At funerals I sometimes feel jealous of the events main character. He’s done with the opening credits! He’s above! Melted in a yellow pool with loved ones, understanding, gone from suffering.
But I know dying isn’t the goal.
Living isn’t the goal.
The goal is to experience, explore, machete through with excitement the whole spectrum with passion. To take life with chin up. To allow emotion, feelings, thoughts to run rampant and unencumbered by conscious shackles.
I like to hate, to sneer, to become moved by anger that my fist clinch tight enough to create bloody palms while my teeth bite so violently that the enamel threatens to crack to the root and split my gums in half. I want to feel this. To know the boundary, my levels.
How dark can I get? The shadow in the valley & I walk blind, barefoot, daydreaming of murder.
In this valley. At the lowest point. Bedrocked. I look up and see the mountains tops.
I climb towards it. Here is Godly. Here is love. Where’s my range? I’m nearing the ceiling, free off the basement but aware of its depth.
I’m beaming. Eyes light, glowing with childlike curiosity. Unity. Humanitarianism. A selflessness washing over in full force. It makes me want to pour every ounce of energy, life, into helping. I want to protect someone and am willing to die for it.
I’m exhausted and risen to be blinded by good. But would I know how Good, how Pure, it is up here without having stood in that valley… without feeling anger: shaded in maroon, dancing with Devil, brain melted to retribution, thoughts locked on revenge?
Because of this I can underastsnd, on a primordial level, Compassion: shaded in lavender, heart painted in understanding, whole body weak from absorbing, receiving. Whole spirit fulfilled by mercy.
A sound mind escapes me, seems a foreign concept. I never agreed with Marcus Aurelius although understanding him. Life is felt. Life is felt then shared through range, expressed scopes, degrees of unique polarity only you can find for yourself. Highs and lows that allow you to feel, in your bones, the meaning of one another. Your years will be raw, messy.
It will be bloody but it’s your blood.
WITH FIRE,
WINSTON
SOULED IDEA
SWASHBUCKLIN MANIAC IN NEED OF A PUNCH IN THE MOUTH.
I’m thinking we start hunting therapist. The Rapist. I’m thinking you become the therapists therapist, prescribe them medicine. Numb them so they can’t numb. Infiltrate.
Smile at an ugly person today.
