So, I wanted to try to see what happens if I write something when I’m not feeling necessarily depressed and have nothing currently triggering anxiety. If it seems a little self indulgent to be writing about myself so much, I don’t think it is. I’m not presuming that anyone who happens to come across my little personal blog would think that, but it’s possible I guess. I personally think that I couldn’t even begin to express why I feel it’s important to me. If anything I feel that it gives me a feeling of freedom, so I can express whatever I want, or maybe feel as though I’m not as alone if people recognize what I say.

Last night was sort of creepy for me, I ended up going to bed feeling absolutely terrified. Sometimes it feels like the parts of my brain responsible for connecting to reality are falling apart. I’ve gone over this before in a recent post about anxiety, so to avoid getting redundant I’ll just skip the explanation of why I believe this happens. What may have triggered it is what I suppose I could call death anxiety or existentialism. I spent a lot of time yesterday just trying to come to terms with an interpretation of the universe (as if I could be any less vague). Basically, I was asking myself a lot how I could be okay with meaninglessness and the pervasive theme in my thoughts, was why do I feel upset with there being no purpose? Why can’t I just be happy existing, why does meaninglessness have to be “bad”?

I sometimes think I get carried away in presumptuous thinking over that, I was thinking “maybe it could be that society instilled such deep ills in my mind, that I’m trying to deprogram myself”. Sure, it could be, but I really don’t know for certain and without a real explanation, I’m just scapegoating to make myself feel better. Regardless though, when I get anxiety like I did yesterday, it feel as though I fear my perception of reality itself will start to crumble. When I’m in this state of mind, I have to be careful. I’m not entirely awake in the rational part of my brain, so I will get extremely easily frightened. Some such instances of this are being more afraid of the dark when I’m tired, or seeing my own hand move in the corner of my eye, scaring me and making me think something else is there. I’ve even had very minor hallucinations when I was having anxiety in the past (i.e. sitting at a bar and staring at some bottles, then briefly seeing them shake as if there was an earthquake).

Before I go further, I want to state for the record that I am feeling better today. I slept fine last night, regardless of my anxiety going to sleep. Yesterday was just like any normal day for me. Secluded, dark with the curtains drawn, I drank a lot of decaf coffee and herbal tea. I pretty much avoided talking to anyone, I need time to myself to just listen to music, contemplate things, follow my curiosities online. I listened to an amazing death metal album when I woke up called Le Dernier Crépuscule for the sixth time in the past few days, which that alone makes me want to write a multi paragraph review, I’m subduing the urge to just write it right here (I actually did start writing it but then I decided not to digress so much). I listened to pharmakon, white suns, and kevin drumm as well. In retrospect, maybe I could have been focusing on lighter things, the thought of thinking about lighter things annoyed me at the time though.

Theorizing about existence isn’t necessarily something you can simply do, I don’t think. Whatever I think seems so subjective sometimes, I often feel that I don’t know how I could relate what I’m thinking into words. It’s also difficult for me to relay, because at the moment I’m not experiencing the conundrum which triggers my anxiety. I feel more at peace today, there’s no muse for me to argue with and try to grapple for explanations over. Perhaps my mind was getting through it, just as your body fights off a cold, or how you feel better after you cry or vomit, perhaps I worked out some of the issues that were troubling me subconsciously when I was asleep.

I feel hesitant to try to face my fears in writing right now, of the existential thoughts. If I write something and can’t resolve what I say in the writing, it will leave my mind with unanswered questions, which I will then go on to mull over until I once again purge myself of them and feel relaxed. I often feel as though I have to avoid thinking about certain things, in order to keep myself from falling into the downward spiral of thoughts. If I see republican candidates on facebook, I will often hide the posts, because believe me, I have thought enough about them, they make my fucking skin crawl and make me feel absolutely sick to the core. Not out of hate, mind you. I feel this way because I feel it sparks a passion inside of me, that just wants the world to be a better place. I don’t care if this sounds dull to say, I am an extremely sensitive person. Thinking about these things brings back the muse and leaves me grappling.

I read a quote by William S. Burroughs on genesis p-orridge’s facebook, which said that if you wait then most questions will answer themselves. I haven’t read much of his work, I tried reading The Wild Boys today. This segways me into something else I’ve wanted to mention, which is that I’ve been trying to get into reading lately. Reading anything which I am not entirely enthusiastic about reading has always been difficult for me. If I am enthusiastic about reading something, I can read it much faster and I’ll pick up a lot more. I tried reading The Wild Boys today, but I couldn’t really make it past the first page. First of all, William S. Burroughs seems like an interesting guy, but I don’t really know why I should read him besides the fact that a lot of people seem to make a big deal over him. I’ll try again, I have a lot of books on my kindle (sorry if that offends some people who are into hard copies. When I’m older and not broke and have space, I’ll get book shelves and get all this expensive shit to take up space. Until then I’ll just put like 90 books on my kindle).

I’ve read a few books in the past month, I meant to read more but I’ve not been entirely as enthusiastic about it and I can’t for myself. I read In The Miso Soup, The Wasp Factory, Story of the Eye, and The Metamorphosis. I hated the metamorphosis, simply because it was depressing. In The Miso Soup was a fascinating psychological look at the mind of a serial killer, with lots of suspense and mind games. I actually lost sleep from anxiety one night because of how creepy that book got. The Wasp Factory was my favorite, it was a surreal story, it really unfolded in a way that just kept getting weirder and weirder. Story of the Eye was actually one of the most relaxing books I ever read, I felt as though the weight of the world was lifted from me when I was reading it. It’s just an incredibly perverse book, which I suppose was written by a philosopher to transgress against society’s values (this post just became something that would be awkward to share with my parents LOL).

So, I don’t think I should just let go of the things that bother me at all, if I did that then I wouldn’t be as thoughtful or as deep thinking of a person as I am right now (if you would feel honest to call me a deep thinking person). It’s funny to me, how I just came across that Burroughs quote on facebook, with just a random passing glance at my facebook feed, yet it makes so much sense to me. I guess that good things can occur at any time, and it’s often only a matter of time before you come across significance. Sometimes things with great significance aren’t presented to you on a gold plate or forced into your face, they’re found by chance. It could be your favorite album of all time, or a really good quote, it’s out there somewhere waiting for you. I hope you found something interesting in my blog, feel free to message me with your thoughts!

Nice