Madness

I do not know what to call this post. There is madness in my head. A short circuit. I grab at everything around me that I can grab, trying to stay sane. DZZZTTT. Short circuit. My thoughts are flying everywhere. What if I end up in psychiatric care again? DZZZTTT. Short circuit. Why is my best friend now pushing me away completely? DZZZTTT. How am I going to get through tomorrow? DZZZTTT. What about my work? DZZZTTT. Why have I been unable for so long just to pee where and when I want? DZZZTTT. Why can people not see this as something physical in my head that suddenly stops working... DZZZTTT. What if I have to die completely alone a second time? DZZZTTT. Where has the Lieven of two months ago suddenly gone? DZZZTTT. I am in a tunnel, and at the end there is no light but a train. At times I am in agony, yet nowhere in particular hurts. DZZZTTT. Where is my tribe... where is family... who in this supposedly shared society can just come and hold me? DZZZTTT. Is there another world somewhere where I do fit in? DZZZTTT. Where can I finally feel at home? DZZZTTT. P., I thought you were different. DZZZTTT. This is a replay, staged by me, by my beliefs, Dirk, thinking, thinking, thinking, ridiculous. DZZZTTT. All I am asking for is a little love and warmth and somewhere to come home to. DZZZTTT. Everyone is busy with their own life. DZZZTTT. No time for someone like me, no time just to be there, not eight minutes to spare, no time, we have a life, ambition, just die, Lieven, all that heaviness, such a burden. DZZZTTT. I am going to have to die again. DZZZTTT. People are friends until you need them. DZZZTTT. Unconditional love... where... DZZZTTT. True love is rare, true friendship rarer still. Apparently neither is here. DZZZTTT. Monday evening... thirteen grams... I do not want to know anymore, I do not want to see anymore, it is all stories, everyone plays their role in life, everyone just does something, everyone convinces themselves their story is special... and meanwhile we are there for nobody... DZZZTTT. Short circuit. Madness. I need hugs. Physical contact. Something real. Away with the false. DZZZTTT.

Time falls away. Everything comes together in one point. All my memories, all my feelings, all my pain, everything that has ever gone wrong. DZZZTTT. Have I ever really allowed myself to let out that grief about my father and stepfather? That is the madness: always carrying on, always carrying on, surviving. Make it stop. DZZZTTT. Where am I? What am I doing here? What am I? I am a beautiful human being, and yet once again I am replaying something from the past. My father's energy. It is about time that stopped. Fucking bastard. That is what is happening now. I am trying to prove to a friend that I am worth it. That I am worth helping at a time like this. But it is a replay. Endless. Over and over again. DZZZTTT. Karma. Fuck, I am angry. I am so angry that you do not want to be there in this darkness. I am so angry for believing we were close enough friends for you to be here for me for a little while during these weeks of madness. How weak and small and insignificant you make me feel. As if I do not exist. DZZZTTT. Short circuit. This could have made our friendship stronger. You simply choose yourself. Just like my father forty-three years ago. What you give determines what you get. DZZZTTT. Maybe many years from now, somewhere many years from now, maybe, you, will, then get your karmic share and think I could simply have been there a little at that moment. DZZZTTT.

Sometimes we only need eight minutes. Eight minutes. Eight minutes to be able to keep living. Eight minutes of light. Eight minutes of listening. Eight minutes of connection. Eight minutes of humanity. DZZZTTT. Suffering has no hierarchy. And this time I am not choosing to be a victim. The pain, however, is excruciating. The pain is from another planet. DZZZTTT. Short circuit. I cannot even explain what happens to me at a moment like that. I miss the weekend with my Baskuul family. A moment of immersion. A chance to feel what it is like to be normal. A weekend with friends and family. Being normal. A blanket. DZZZTTT. Forty-eight years in this amusement park. I am tired of the rides. I have seen it. Just put me in the sun. DZZZTTT. Absent fathers, nightmares, chronic fatigue syndrome, fear of urinating, tension, anxiety, trauma... where is the exit? Where is the exit? Where the fuck is the exit? I want out. I want out of this body. But I am not my body. I have a body. Trapped in this endless projection. DZZZTTT.

It surprises me that more people do not go mad. We probably hide them very well. Afraid it might be contagious. Suicide. Keep it quiet. Getting old. Keep it quiet. Mental health problems. Keep it quiet. Sensation. Sell it. Change the world from behind our computers. Loneliness. Keep it quiet. More. More. More. Collecting stones. DZZZTTT. Short circuit. Fear. Media. Social media. It is all a story. Which story? What nourishes me... What do I want to manifest? Is being not enough? Could there be a little less, please? Stepping out of the story. Going mad. Keep it quiet. Poverty. Keep it quiet. DZZZTTT. I am looking for a solution to something that no longer exists. I am looking for a way to change the past. An idea in my head. Again and again I seek my father's energy, hoping I can change the story. It is madness. DZZZTTT. Short circuit. People who are struggling mentally need so little, and yet nobody wants to give it. It has to be something we can cut away, or we will not look at it. Here, take a few pills. What, a hug? Sorry, that makes me vulnerable. My story cannot be put on pause. I have a life. I have a life. I have a life. I have plans. Profit. Profit. Profit. Growing. Always growing. More. Who is mad here... Deconstruction. I feel like a spiritual experiment. DZZZTTT. Short circuit. I want an upgrade. Just ignore it. There is never a problem in the now. I do not think so. There is a problem now. There most definitely is a problem now. Madness. DZZZTTT. Short circuit.

“Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead.”
― Charles Bukowski

There are degrees, Charles. There are degrees.