i am who i am, and who i want to be - you should be like that, too.
silence in the night, water dripping down the pipes and out to the cold june morning. i am safe in the notion that my place exists, and other places that exist have their own wars. the light in the day that breaks over me takes me past where i really am. this level of consciousness hurts only because i see the world that i do not truly exist in. this proves that we exit the world we see and enter worlds that we exist in already every night. i woke this evening into a dream and walked through a hospital watching the people act like their vacation from reality was near completion. they asked me if their time was now, i said i could not know for more than the one man laughing as the bombs fell and people died. he was trying to impress me. he did not appreciate that notion that god made orphan junkie angels to damn souls.
i know this is just a dream, and i have been wondering about this whole notion for a while - so the thoughts could easily fall into my dream, as they seem to resonate with what i have been pondering the last few waking hours, but still i sat like a person who knew where the world was and what i was doing there in the afterlife. it explained why i see the world the way i do, with just enough grandeur to allow me to claim to be an angel. this is silly, because i only wish that i was - my experiences dictate that i only have an overactive imagination and some serious mental health troubles, and at best am a super-rockstar. i think i’d like to be an angel, but it seems like that is a lot of work. also, i’d do the angel things for my own glory - to share on this blog and sign autographs, and the real angels probably just do that because they are made that way. i suppose the bi-polar pendulum swung the other direction in that dream.
i didn’t think i was worthwhile, that anything i have done had any merit, and easily i ran away into the distraction of my mind. every time i think that i am worth less than a old wooden nickel i tend to go the other direction and claim to be some sainted angel from another plain of existence purvey to all sorts of information and space travel while in the tavern that i regular. all this information is just creative juices flowing and the biggest shame is when i do not document it. that is why i hope that other people have been documenting my work as well as what i know for certain and can see. that is a trial of my life, as i know that to be so, and i don’t really need to be so vain to see every reaction of every face and defend myself to those that think i am an aardvark or stick in the mud.
in the before time, when myself or other people would mention my card holding membership to the av club, that is medic alert bracelet adrenochrome victim one in show business i would fall to the ground like a knife and cry rolling around while completely vacant wishing i could stay but once again kidnapped and taken to this strange house where a horrible story unfolded in my youth. my triggers (which i should maybe not mention here) are all the various torments that were given to me in some party shed that was run by a couple of weirdos. in the recent months i have had what they call in psychology a “breakthrough,” in which i have buried that memory with too many good memories and therefore can relate the whole series of events without being a babbling and yammering pile, crying for a mother that can’t help me make it back to the peace of a poor junky’s hide-out. maybe one day i will record the story for all posterity, but i know that many jerks would laugh at the fact that a couple of fools tortured me as a child (mostly through the use of ropes, burning, chemicals and knives) and then blinded me traumatically to eat a part of my brain. these jerks, they would try to make the person i have since become become a babbling pile crying and hurting so they would yell the story at me to see if they could. i know this because people try to sometimes. to me, this is the same sort of jerk that cut my feet open and made me walk on salt and broken glass when i was a kid, as far as i am concerned.
what an andrenochrome victim is, exactly, is someone who has been harvested for their adrenaline gland (whether willingly or unwillingly, the latter being my case). this leaves one without the ability to make the sorts of drugs or chemicals that should be made in one’s brain naturally through adrenaline and means that if i do not snort an amyl every 2 hours or so my body and mind fall apart and my heart eventually stops, maybe at about hour 7. this also means that i need methadone treatment for a whole spectrum of drugs and that unlike most people who take that treatment, it is not my fault. it is scary that people try to make me relive the events that have lead me to have this serious psychological and medical malady. this is, for the record - not cool. i wish i didn’t have to take serious drugs often, and also sometime with that drugs worked on my on more than a not dying level. i don’t want to leave the people i care about. i also wish i wasn’t blinded by a drill and a couple of douchebags who like to fuck with children who were already orphans to start with.
these experiences are probably the most painful memories in my life, and no, i do not really want to relive them again, as it has happened many times to me since it actually occurred. it is an awful shame that people think it is funny to have me relive this stuff and stop me on the street trying to hit those triggers. these people have obviously never had a hard time in life, and definitely never had a difficult childhood. that almost bothers me more than the fact that at 30 this guy was trying to make a broken person cry on the street. i don’t wish any harm on him, for the record, as passive aggressive actions seems to be the most painful.