A demon of weakness

 

Konica12553

 

 

Lostness   (49)

 

 

Perhaps pain only tends to ennoble those already possessing nobility?

I experience my own suffering as rather disgusting.

Then notice, automatically judging myself harshly.

It seems so easy, believing bad things said about me.
Yet very difficult to accept any praise.

I  was taught such severity, before I could form a defence.

We cannot atone for the offence of existing
to someone who finds our existence offensive.

 


 

How to gain self-esteem without currently having it?
Breaking circles of negation…

Should I begin by directing inward, sorts of kindness I might like to receive from others?

 


 

 

When loss is unperceived, grief may be misunderstood.

 

 


 

 

In forced rest
sensing slow atrophy

drifting farther
from a once fit person
returning through dreams

where he moves
effortlessly
along streets unseen for years
while I struggle
to accept
never walking them again

lying alone
with fear
that some demon
of weakness
drags me toward
strange realms
better unvisited
which become harder to leave
the longer one stays

as a door closes
upon me
here
lacking strength
to hold it open
this exit
from my past
wished left
ajar

now
losing
what I had not realised
was even loved

my own
old life.

 

 

(1989)

 

(philosophy/psychology/mental health/illness/loneliness/thoughts/ideas/opinions/poetry/writing)

 

 

 

 

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Anything realised

 

Konica12508

 

Lostness   (48)

 

 

Though it may be enjoyable, sneering is hardly a superior use of intelligence.

 

Cultural snobbery, for example, aimed at cliched reactions to art from those stuck in their visual taxonomies.

 

(Which I associate with reviews leaving the question:”Did you like it?” unresolved.)

 

 


 

 

Vagueness forms a refuge, where precision seems threatening.

 

Situations requiring the supression of hostility.

When, if we cannot make people good, we try to make them behave well.

(As politics or law tend to result in an imposition of will, by some upon others.)

 


 

Whatever arises acts to constrain perception.

 

Anything realised involves options closed.
Perhaps constituting a burden of finitude.
Thus we could imagine that inertia preserves more possibility than action.
Yet, in actuality, a small task done outranks our big fantasy.

 


 

 

Feeling oppressed by a sense of insignificance.

 

While my certainties take negative form.
(Age, loss, illness, rejection, death.)

 

Hope no longer shields me from the truth that I am unfit to marry.

 

I tell myself sex would only leave me unfulfilled.
I mingle pity with desire
allow beauty its sadness
even admit love may reveal
what it was supposed to overcome:
a victorious loneliness…

But women remain icons
for an impenetrability
of existence.

And I end up making jokes
because life
is so serious.

 

 

(1989)

(philosophy/psychology/poetry/mental health/thoughts/ideas/writing)

 

 

 

 

Xmas lost

 

Konica12496

 

My uncle especially liked this picture of me.

He died in November.

Now I am completely alone.

 


 

 

It has been a stressful time, though I somehow managed to continue weekly posting.

I keep hoping my audience will grow consistently beyond single figures, but the stats usually arrive as a digital depressant, including many vacant days without views.

 

 


 

 

This first Xmas of blogging sparked a new worry:
could I be the loneliest person on WordPress?

 

Probably an unanswerable question.

Yet, my situation is rather unusual.

30 years of chronic illness, pain and exhaustion.

A 27th, consecutive, Xmas spent alone.

Not feeling well enough to go out.
Or make new friends.

The phone doesn’t ring.
I cannot think of anyone who would want to hear from me.
My family are dead. I am the last of our line.

Except for my uncle, no-one has visited me, socially, since 1995.

I am used to emptiness, though Xmas and birthdays still hurt.

 

 


 

 

I shall end on a different note:
by saying a big…

Thank you!

To everyone that left “Likes,” or comments, on my blog.

Your feedback was the most positive online experience, for me,
and I still get excited by it.

 

I hope you all have a good 2018.

 

Best wishes

from Ken.

 

 

(memories/feelings/loneliness/lostness/mental health/depression/life/thoughts/writing)

Postponed living

 

 

Konica12510

 

 

Lostness   (46)

 

What could save me from this abyss of the self?

 

Books have assisted in postponing existence.
Now unfit for life, I make do by reading about it.
My attempts to “start really living” led nowhere.
Or, rather, back to isolation;
and these words.

Too restless to take pleasure by mere being,
while with human company I often feel stressed,
there is a reassurance in the presence of books.

 

How should I learn to love myself?

 

Must I deny the verdicts of parents, or society?
Perhaps such problems stem from childhood,
accepting harsh judgement by others, upon my life.
Taught to internalise a condemnation,
which may then perpetuate injustice.
Thus, uttering any personal assertion that is positive,
I struggle against an internal barrier
of shame.

Yet implausible dreams still arise: of beauty, and a woman’s passion.
Visions neither nature nor nurture gave me the equipment to realise.

 

Can the head cure a sickness in the heart?

 

It is common to associate happiness with normality,
though times I passed as normal failed to dispel my discomfort.
Sometimes adding a sense of diminished authenticity.

Might reason overcome emotion?
How to change my automatic responses?

If thinking did not get me into this mess,
why expect it to get me out?

 

I hoped, perhaps, to mellow.
but despair
seems ageless.

 

 

(Jun-July 1989)

 

(philosophy/psychology/mental health/writing/opinions/ideas)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Seedbed of regrets

IMG_20171126_205954086-1

 

Lostness   (44)

 

The sensation of a room as empty
once alone inside it
akin to psychic negative space.

 

Here I sought to transmute my pain into art.
Though, recently, there is so much more pain than art.
And even that seems insignificant.
Must I also lose an alienated hubris?

 

Questions without answers, again…

 

I knock at a door, which remains closed.
After the problem of what to do
or the lethargy of unable to do
lies the remorse of “if only”.
While, in my head, a silent voice hates me.
Requiring someone to blame.
Can I stop hearing a tape, if my brain keeps playing it?

 

I search for the roots of unhappiness.
And find more unhappiness.

 

Is it woven into my being, or DNA?
How to picture life beyond such a state?
I write: aiming toward freedom, yet create only
variations upon darkness.
Could one construct some aesthetics of suffering,
mined for its beauty or poetry,
redeemed in creation?

 

But I weary of chronic illness:
and am taking it badly
lacking great heart
like those cheerful victims
beloved by media
who face up to
all privations
bravely.

 

Sickness sows a seedbed of regrets.

 

Where I languish
finding alternate descriptions
for inertia
but still strive to imagine
being at spiritual peace
from despair
in its closed
circle.

 

 

(Mar-April 1989)

(philosophy/psychology/depression/mental health/thoughts/writing)

 

Deviant loneliness

 

 

IMG_20171203_232209101

 

 

Lostness   (43)

 

I have lived a life of feelings.
Yet what remains
once they are gone?

 

I suppose the life of action might leave more behind…
As things stand, I am left a mind filled by memory and emotion.
But no-one to share it with.

I cannot find the exit from barrenness.
Or a way to untie those knots which bind me in insignificance.
Purpose remains hidden. Motivation fades.

 

Being “in touch” with feelings, shades into being oppressed by them.

 

I think about how sexuality has blighted my existence.
Through one-sided fascinations with women.
Where, unable to bridge that aching inequality between the desired and the undesired,
I have craved the company even of some who despised me.
Or wanting love so much as to fear resentment from indifference.
Again, perception perhaps distorted by self-hate: those attractions for women utterly different, which would probably never work.

 

If only I were content in this obscurity.

 

Instead, there are wishes to reach out, from deviant loneliness, toward a mirage of recognition that might well prove unsatisfying, while doubting my abilities for such an undertaking.

Should I aspire to form a tiny locus of generative suffering?

 

 


 

 

Drifting off to sleep a quote came into my head:

“the unexamined life is not worth living.”

Very well, I thought,
But what if the examined life
is not worth living, either?

 

 

 

(1988-9)

 

(philosophy/psychology/thoughts/opinions/mental health)

 

 

 

 

A Leper’s squint

IMG_20171126_210428856

 

Lostness   (42)

 

Discontinuity calls us to consciousness.

 

Awareness working against entropy.
Art selecting from a chaos of impressions.
Though, once theory and context are forgotten, objects will perhaps revert to potential fecundity in the unexplained.

Could one see text as “matter” for literature, and matter as “text” for reality?
With criticism or physics attempting analysis across both realms.
Language, being so fruitful, may need restraint not to ramify beyond control.

 

 


 

 

Influenced by feminism, I ponder when arousal might be permissible.
“Alone in a sperm bank!” responds an inner voice.
Daunted by genetic responsibility, I shorten this to one word:
“Alone.”
Appropriately, isolation is the very situation where I experience these effects.
Which somewhat relieves the conscience, but leaves loneliness untouched.

 

I worry, thinking about myself,
that I will end up with only myself to think about.

 

Remembering certain old churches had small holes, called a “Leper’s squint”, cut through their wall, allowing undesirables a view inside: this struck me as analogous to the perception of outsiders, exiled from normality.

 

 


 

 

Methods to avoid thought remain useful, hence the popularity of bias.
People seeking offence find it everywhere.
World-views are partly composed of preferences.
Would organisms survive a hostile environment without partiality?

 

Returning to my own case…

Even knowing life is not a rehearsal, it still feels that way.

Consequently, where consideration makes optimism too demanding,
I shall try to proceed
in an absence of hope.

 

 

 

(1988)

 

(philosophy/psychology/writing/thoughts/ideas/opinions/mental health)

 

 

 

 

Psychic residues

Lostness  (40)

 

 

IMG_20171112_153648737_HDR

 

 

Might we somehow partake in immortality?

Consider the atoms from which we are made, old as stars, though
apparently lacking that crucial element: consciousness.

I still enjoy my meal while nearing the last mouthful; yet life may feel
marred because it has an end.

 

Disillusion as a price of knowledge?

If an optimist finds a doughnut and a pessimist finds a hole: the optimist is more liable to end-up with indigestion.

Will our extended sensibilities one day reach to technological offspring?
(Perhaps leading to an “Android Liberation Front”?)

Should we perceive a certain narcissism in attempts to control creation, and where reproduction, which once required contact, now also results from masturbation?

 

Other levels of disenchantment:

Things I never found at parties…
interesting conversation; new friends; going home without disappointment.

Even while asleep, traversing many dreams the way I pass through life: as a bemused spectator, I seem barred from any wisdom of experience.

Forgetting, too, has benefits. When we struggle to regain our innocence.

Recently I woke telling imaginary listeners: “Orgasm clears the psychic residues.”

If dreams were meant to be remembered, would nature have made it so difficult?

 

Next morning

Surprised again, by daylight,
I lie leaden with drowsiness
faintly sensing a barrier slid
across an exit
as the cavern
of my unconscious
seals itself behind me

What happened to inspiration?
How little was dredged-up
from all those feverish nights.
Now just questions remain…

Will I ever
be cured
of poetry?

 

 

(1985-6)

 

(philosophy/psychology/mental health/writing/thoughts/opinions)

 

 

The profundity gap

Lostness   (38)

 

Asymmetries of passion disrupt equanimity.

In couples: regarding proportions of love.

Anxiety around a profundity gap, overshadowing romantic encounters.

Questions arising later: “Did our time together mean as much to her, as to me?”
“Am I feeling too strongly, or too soon?”

Presumably, those with higher expectations from relationships might experience greater dissatisfaction?
Though exclusivity excludes: looking for potential mates does not always cease after one has been found.

Certain people, by their inconsistency, refuse to make appraisal easy on us.

For the truly insensitive most behaviours become possible.

 

What aids perception may also blind.

The lens of a world-view.

Hence ways of living, fashioned from misery, yet still clung to, until something better arrives. In failure: victimhood as a sop to self-esteem.
Or ridicule and laughter, without understanding, defending ignorance.

 

All positions seem questionable.
Including the position that all positions seem questionable.

Who gets through existence with clean hands?
Even walking on grass normally kills something.

Once the soul revolts against injustice, an unhappy life is usually available.

 

So here I am. Alone with books. Having no friends.
Sexless in a barren limbo.
At arousing women I fear ranking second
to a slightly mouldy courgette.
I frown before the bedroom mirror
from behind this predicament of a face
stressed about appearance
and how I will be judged.
If only by myself.

 

 

(1984-5)

(philosophy/psychology/poetry/mental health/thoughts/opinions)

 

 

Time-stained

Lostness   (36)

 

How do believers in an afterlife know they are not already dead?

I gaze at time-stained photographs of those long deceased: Victorians remain posed forever, lips still wet with saliva.

Through memory we may even come to haunt ourselves.

Moments when I feel ghostly in a self-haunted existence.

Returning to these images: how many are judged instantly, from a look or stance?
In the same way, something about us gets liked or disliked, and rationalisations follow.

Aesthetics precedes ethics.

 


 

Other, unrelated, questions came to mind:

Would saints deserve more praise than divinities whose perfection is unlaboured?

Virtue without power might be mocked, yet can virtue survive power?

Should we close our eyes because others are blind?

Equality is not always justice.

 


 

 

An elementary example of inexperienced youth speaking at cross purposes:

“Let’s not get serious.”
“OK. Shall we just go to bed?”
“I see you as a friend.”
“Good! I want to sleep with you, as a friend.”

Living the material of a joke need not appear funny.

For those managing only platonic relationships, a sexual one can seem to approach the form of an unattainable idea.

I hope to avoid: “He was really nice, but…” as a suitable epitaph.

Perhaps life has said “no” to me, more than I have said “no” to life?

 

 

 

(1983-1984)

(philosophy/psychology/sexuality/writing/thoughts/ideas)