i would like to be cured but its gotten to the point where, this is my life im glad its this way, i dont think i could stand a normal life, even if i didnt have schizophrenia more and more i wonder what that is.. i mean i guess its definitely more than weird, i guess the voices are not real, but there are so many kinds, so constant, its hard you are not even thinking about it
it used to be worse, when people spoke... now i am in a quieter room so i no longer hear conversations distorted into horribleness
thats the worst part about it, why i dont like to travel
but where has it left me
no one can really relate to me, i was looking through old stuff that i wrote, it seems like i joined a cult or something, a new way of life.. like i was wandering around sleeping in a shed for a while and then woah its schizophrenia...
but its actually not, theres just so many varieties of life, so many me's so many versions some of them knowing, some of them forgetting, thats the thing, there really is no foundation, what i mean is what is really real, there are amazing things that come in that way, but ur own your own im on my own i see that now, though i go out into people they will never understand, they want me to be a certain way, they say stop talking in riddles, make sense...
it makes perfect sense to me, i dont understand why they are trying to repress me, you begin to see the extent of yourself even into other people
and you know that you are everything
i see it and its true
everything is the self, this is yoga in some places, and even here, but its crazy, its endless boundless alone, howling at the sun
checkers in my vision, i walk towards the objects which seem far away
why...
my music is gone from me, i can complain if i want to
its different, just so different, if it was easy it would be easy, but it is not it doesnt even have a point or destination its just life
the whole thing, as always
the whole thing, who sees the whole thing
rambling wandering, none of them do, all of them together, who has breached that, none of us, sometimes it seems in writing, there are things that are prophetic, no one ever acknowledges this, i have even met myself in life, she has not acknowledged this.. i dont want to run at them and force them too... i guess its my job just to live with this realization conundrum among all the tortures distractions because really its not people that are doing it, nor is it anything external, it is your own mind, but melded with all things
because everything is mind, even air is mind....
and the heart... heart is mind
and spirit is mind
and they all translate to eachother but what i'm talking about is so real and so pointless to say here so i have
i've made this trail, it just looks like my life, nothing else, like life
i dont see it anywhere ive written so much eh totally not knowing what to do i surrender
to the smells, the feint smells the senses
all of it, these intentions they dissolve on me i pour into all of it, >-bleeped-< it... theres only so much you can take
and its gone now
im dead
but not yet cured
because they all understand primally, everyone you ever met, they do, they know you are the only one who really feels, who really goes through it, they know you are the one to lead them out, but they can't say it, why is our soul such? why? its an old yarners tale, at the edge of the coast lies oblivion and bliss these boats of flax and honey are no match
where does it matter again the letters the pounding incessant breathe all of it disoriented all the righting that ever happened none of them understand they think this must be this or that reaching for excuses, feeble defenses you just have to let yourself be destroyed utterly entirely, from not one source but all at the same time, thats the only way, thats what i invite, because it will work itself out that way ive been told you know its the kundalini, but in a way of course this is just a strange jargon and a magic note of peace
jesus christ, the rain and the feeling of You
the knowing of I, and the giving of the blue sky
down upon so many chestnuts each a universe, each a world, each still sleeping not yet done,
it is my time for bed says the universe, fifty zen moks approach
i licked the tigers foot, i said give me ulat's junk!
no a sea of arrows, soft as spaghetti, a pin of leaping pine... you dont understand the words
suddenly it doesnt make sense
be weary of them saying that, its more ritualistic than it seems, i tell you these are the gates which the matriarchs speak of
and those are the front door and every door after that
shut the front door, if i had windows with which to see, maybe the mind whom i am a cell for would understand that I am only the gardener and its been much havoc lately, but I will send flowers, of every color into the eyes of God
the rainforest will grow, things will happen in a certain blessed way
logic is a trap none of it can help benevolence is a sham, hold on only to the pillows
creeped out? this creeps you out? this is what i deal with, enlightening and frightening
the apple jars and the mad moon, yawning again for what purpose home alone... a car free... skiddig that moment
so can they be trusted either >-bleeped-< trust, the beingness of it all, i walk through this town listening to these cds, all these old cds, in this town and what will happen it all couldchange thats true i would have nothing to say aqbout it, there is wisdom in the tao, but that i have read it, i could never approach it, like a cat uneven on the path to anonymity
of a body in the throes of a psychic gestalt, meditation comes here, purely vajrayana buddhism
or something these must be held onto and the dharma makes itself whole, weaves itself of the emptiness and fullness
that it all lays bear, forever, everywhere it appears, and high are the guardians, vexed and adept
exchanging tales
No Talking!
the cool breeze of yanitude
all these people
none of them have ever existed
