Non compos mentis

I really don’t have to think about any of this.
I can train myself, to only think about moon light and what my next meal will be.
But then I think, if all I am concerned with is food and shelter, then I am merely surviving in the world and isn’t the goal to be able to reach the pinnacle of self awareness and accomplishment? Aren’t we supposed to be striving to be able to find that self actualization?
Perhaps not. See if I self Actualize aren’t I still diluting myself? If I am only ever going to be a part of this great charade, how can I be a separate entity from it? Am I not war? Am I not poverty and hunger? Am I not a product of rape and murder and malice? Am I not also compassion? Am I not the ultimate expression of love? If I am all of these things at once how could I just be, me?
I really don’t have to think about any of this.
I can focus on my next big project at work or figuring out some fun thing to do with my kid on the weekends, like I assume everyone else does. But according to their graphs and charts and tables, I have mental disorders. It is a disorder not to blindly wake up thinking I must go to work and then I must buy things with the money I made from this work and then I must die. It is a disorder to think this is my body and I can tattoo it as much as I want to, poke holes in it, brand it, show it off to whomever I choose, let people have sex with it if I want to and determine on my own when and if I ever want to use it as a human delivery system. I won’t say some of it is unfounded, I do have PTSD from childhood trauma and you would too if you saw a man drag your mother down a glass covered alley in the middle of the night by her hair. You would too if you had an uncle who thought it was okay to molest his daughters and nieces. But these are not excuses. These are reasons for the condition but I have wrestled with those already. I have wanted to jump off of bridges already. I have already attempted to end the game gracefully with the odd result of actually still living. Taking your credits out of the pinball machine before the final score is tallied is probably crazy but it doesn’t seem to be a disorder to me, it seems to be what would follow suit considering the conditions. But now, I am almost old. I am on the precipice of becoming one of the youngest of old people. I have survived this long with all of these crazy past traumas. The question is with the PTSD and PMDD and very possible BPD, do I hate me? Do I hate anyone? Do I even feel anything enough to hate it? Because hate and love are super close concepts. Hate and love are very similar.If everything is a reflection of what I see inside myself and I can hate something, then that does mean that I hate me right? But if I don’t really exist outside of the whole, there really is no self than I hate everything, right or worse, I don’t feel anything as an individual because there is no such thing.
I really don’t have to think about any of this.
I can go around trying to build more bull shit, I can come up with marketing strategies to sell more products so that when I finally do kick the bucket there will be a shit ton of legal tender left behind for my kid to grow up and do nothing with but continue to stockpile as if one day it won’t all become worthless. Why do some of us think of things from an existential, nihilist point of view? Why do some others leave their beliefs and actions in the hand of an invisible sky god force with tenets lain down thousands of years ago by other humans? As a writer I am always curious as to what delusions will keep people under control, keep them in line, keep them walking in single file, keep them from looking for anything outside of their back yard, how clever is it to make people feel like they belong to a tribe or a neighborhood or a fraternity or a country or a gang or a team and therefore control their thoughts and money and actions, how brilliant is it to make them band together under a flag or a cause or a religion. I know sharing food and resources is why we communicate with each other in the first place but then it escalates, does it not great great grand children of Genghis Khan to lets take our flag and control everyone else with it! And if you are alone, if you choose to be an outsider to all of this chaos and madness and desperate longing for approval what label do you get? What medication are you prescribed? Do you not sometimes feel that the fact that they think you are insane is a true indicator that you are not? But then you would have to go back to believing that you are something more than a carbon based skin suit floating on radio waves.
I really don’t have to think about any of this.
I can just write hearts and love notes all day long and look starry eyed and pleasant in the face of adversity. But I am sad. I am sad and I accept that I really don’t know what love is. I don’t understand why it is associated with sex and monogamy. I don’t understand why I am a horrible person because the thought of one person depending on my affection and approval for their rest of their lives is terrifying. Evidence shows that very few humans mate for life and often when they do they are impoverished in someway and rely on each other for survival. If the human male has enough sperm to impregnate the world it kind of makes no evolutionary sense that we should desperately want to hold onto one single one out of the thousands of thousands of them in existence forever, isn’t that going against the creature’s nature? Technically shouldn’t all of us have a shit ton of kids with multiple “baby daddies” all of whom are the strongest in the tribe and therefore carry on a survival gene? I have no answers. I do know that our societal structures are ones that we made up, our belief systems and code of ethics change whenever whomever is in power changes and I do know that some of the so called craziest and most delusional among us have come up with the most amazing songs and poems and stories and artwork and create the things that give us life, that distract us from the humdrum of just existing and if all of them were forced to take zoloft and sit in a psych ward for being different or imaginative would we even have words to speak? Would we not just sleep and eat and fuck and grunt? Have not these mad types dreamed of sky scrapers and hoverboards and every movie you have ever seen, even the terrible ones? Have not their terrible afflictions in childhood and relationships born paintings and skat and one act plays and street art and even the clothes that we wear to define ourselves? Why are we so afraid to live and in the inverse, so afraid to die?
I don’t have to think about any of this and I teeter between thinking I am the one with the problems or everyone else is blind.
I don’t really have to think about any of this but I do and I cannot stop.

I just want to be remembered for all of human history.

That’s probably why I am crazy.



2 thoughts on “Non compos mentis

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