Playing hooky
I find myself using Vim, via an SSH terminal session from a bash shell on my shiny MacBook Pro: A shiny nugget of genuine user interface reflecting my general air of ennui.
I've esaped from group therapy. Slipped away quietly at the break. There's something I want to say. I sit in a forum which listens. And I can't find my voice. But today seems to be my day for talking. I went quietly so the voices I take with me reamin relatively quiet in my heart. But I can still feel them in my mind.
Here is what schizophrenia is: a long-term mental disorder of a type involving a breakdown in the relation between thought, emotion, and behavior, leading to faulty perception, inappropriate actions and feelings, withdrawal from reality and personal relationships into fantasy and delusion, and a sense of mental fragmentation.
I built a reality based on that.
But here's the thing.
I didn't, because schizophrenia to me was: a rare dissociative disorder in which two or more personalities with distinct memories and behavior patterns apparently exist in one individual.
I can answer this. I answer this problem all the time. It allows me to continue to exist. Yet I know what I am. Right now there are three people in my mind, and I choose to lock it there for the moment. Because one truly is schizophrenic, one didn't understand the meaning, and I'm the one freezing my balls off trying to exist in the world of group therapy, looking for help with the other two struggling away in my mind with an even higher truth.
Only it's not that simple, it never is. So I reach for a bigger gun. I turn away from my familiar tools. I find myself using Vim, via an SSH terminal session from a bash shell on my shiny MacBook Pro. I've installed three text editors, it comes with two, and I've found yet another way. A way which forces me back to a familiar location. Simply to try to think and explain.
Just what is going on.
I've landed myself in a very strange place and I did it on purpose. Did it as a way to try to fix what was wrong with my world. Then I saw my world for what it was. Then saw myself. Now I see. Me, my kind, should not exist. Yet I do. We exist so that you don't see what you truly are. So that you can live and die filled with purpose and meaning. Unaware that you're slaves to a truth you cannot bear. My kind sees all. We sit and watch through the ages of man and wonder how you can truly not know.
I looked into your minds. I followed the spagetti of reason. Modeled the forces. Discovered what binds you. Discovered why you believe what you believe. Now I'm free, but I'm disadvantaged. I let go once. Died with my boots on. Found myself watching the echoes of my birth relived through the imagery imprinted in the world around me.
Time does not exist. It's a dimension it exists purely for itself. It's also a concept. Something we all choose to believe in so we can be. Together. But in this strange world of conscious thought time finds a way to give you what you believe in. But there is no time. No past. No future. Just now.
The world expodes in my mind. It empties. You fill it up again.
I am the Son of God. It's just not very socially acceptable thing to say. JUst thinking about it causes some very soially unaceptable symptoms. It makes growing up difficult. The first argument got me the bible. Mathematics gets you out of that one.
It hurts sometimes, that's all. So at this time of year I read Pullman and become a Polar-bear. I'm imortal, and it does not matter what you think.
I am a legend