Here there be monsters (socratic) wrote,
Here there be monsters

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I don't hate myself anymore. I think that was just like a puff of foul air from an old wound that I'm in the process of pulling the bandage off. I had a session with my shrink about an hour ago and I don't even remember what I said. All I remember was that I started out by trying to manipulate him into deflecting my mind away from my self hatred, and when he wouldn't I tried to fire him for the umpteenth time. He wouldn't let me but he handled it wrong, he was going to let me hang up and try to talk again on monday. He hasn't gathered yet that if I really don't want to talk I will not be confrontational. Eventually I think he got the undermessage and he didn't hang up which is good. I needed the validation that someone could be given the option of leaving me hanging out to dry, and would actually not go through with it.

I don't know why I play these little games. They even seem like games when I'm playing them but I don't want to stop because I'm angry and it is embarassing to admit that you are being juvenile. I feel normal right now, I feel good. It's nice. I think that in this case all the pain and the literal rending of my mental state was part of some sort of long, protracted, super painful healing process. I'm listening to melancholy music and being semi-comfortable in my skin right now, and I kinda like it.

At the same time I want to curl up and bleed.

Charles told me to write a play and I think I might give it a try despite the fear. Despite the absolute terror. I'm not scared about it right now but it WILL come. It always does, like a boogyman leaping out of the closet of my mind if I close my eyes. What a TERRIBLE metaphor. I won't delete it though, I'll leave it as a scar upon a post which I think is pretty meaningful. This whole paragraph is like a beauty mark.

There are two kinds of truth. The truth that's REALLY truth and the truth that's twisted into pretzles and only remains true by virtue of the material from which it was formed (facts.)

I had more to say, but I lost my train of thought while wallowing in its glory. I can't multitask perfectly anymore, or maybe it's just that I'm tired.

I think that all creative people are at least slightly insane. I don't mean that they are chewing on shoes and bouncing off the walls (I've done both BTW) but that they need to be slightly out of touch with reality. Science is wierd because it seeks to classify the universe, but it also seeks to uproot old classifications. A scientist can't believe all of the stuff that he spends much of his time reading. It's an interesting dichotomy...studying something intensly and then throwing it away if it turns out to be hokum.

To think that your ideas are worth being read by hundreds, thousands, millions, of other people is a supreme arogance and requires a certain level of egomaniacal thought.

Most people are smarter than I give them credit for. Does that make me less brilliant by comparison? I don't know because I've never taken myself to the hilt.

Does creating something special mean anything if nobody important is there to see it? If I do something special (And I feel the desire and ability to right now as I have not for YEARS) does it matter if daddy can't see it? It's a question I have struggled with for a long time but I don't have any answers.

Does writing all this stuff make me an emotional exhibitionist? I mean I have given this web address to people I know in REAL life, they are getting to see some of my most intense and hidden self views. I am peeling back masks, and that's good to an extent but in this society nudity is inappropriate. Am I being inappropriate? The truth of the matter is that all the people I've shown this address to (besides my shrink) are people from my old life. High school buddies. I'm sorry guys but most of you are people who I have an aquaintanceship with at most at this point. I like you but it's not like we hang out a lot or anything (blame me, I'm to blame.)

Once again I had a lot more to say but was so content to write inner monologue that I didn't get most of it down and though some dim shapes remain, the specifics have been sucked out of my mind and into the ether. I'm writing most of this while listening to music and watching the sunset through the windows of an apartment about 100 feet from mine. I am glancing at the screen when I feel mistakes in my fingers but it's very interesting to write without watching, it's a liberating and scary experience. This is a tangent, but tangents are something I engage in ALL the time.

Sometimes I wonder how this journal reads to people who don't live inside the mind that created it. Obviously not TOO interestingly since I get very few comments, but I don't know how many people that I'd WANT comments from have read it. Was this what the LiveJournal people intended when they created this thingee? I don't know. Should I care? I do.

Does writing improve or degenerate when you are totally concious of the process? Are there answers for my questions.

I want desperatly to regain the things I've forgotten and if I do I will post them without apology later on. If not, well you missed some pretty interesting thoughts. This is a long post, it will not be read by many, it may be read by none, it may be pondered by only me, but I think overall it was an okay one.
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