Feb 11: Shatter, Shatter, Shatter, Shatter, Shatter

Break me.

Reach your fist into my still-beating heart, and rupture it.

Let blood spatter all over my ribcage, a symphony of beauty.

I wish I could look God in the eyes while he shattered me.

Shatter!

Hope, hope? What hope remains? Why do I continue to live?

Is there hope? No, hope is irrational.

A tick in my brain. One two, one two, one two.

Does God love me? God is incapable of loving me. He can only love everything.

The underbelly of the human condition is how I am biologically bound to the contingent and personal bonds beyond my conscious will.

Love.

I want to sit at the crest of a beach, the water just slightly grazing my toes. I want to hold a ball of light, the size of a beach volleyball, and huge it like a fetus in the womb. I then want it to burst into a superflare of incandescent light. Piercing my skull like Phineas Gage and the rod.

Let the light shatter me! Destroy this frame. Destroy this me. Destroy what I believe I am.

Hope. Why do I find hope in destruction? Am I sick for wishing for constitutive destruction?

This world is too intense. (And here, you will notice I am universalizing my own pain. Plenty of people seem content and happy. Joyous even, while I am doomed to be tortured. There is no redemption in what is truly ontological).

Of this life, I chose none of it. I wish I never had to experience it. I don't want to die. I want to live. But I want to shatter.

Please make me a vessel of that superflare, Hashem.

Scrape, scrape, scrape. The metronome affixed to my cranium.

Am I to believe a God that made me the way I am loves me? Well, he doesn't love me. He can only love everything (remember?).

End me. End me. End me.

Not biologically. But rupture my vision. Rupture my senses.

Shadows reeling backwards to the edges of a brick alleyway, only to expose an even darker fog. An eclipse. Even I don't want to enter the abyss.

That alleyway is me.

I must attach my focus to something beautiful.

Destruction.

Destruction, in the theological sense, is beautiful. Typical mystic talking point: destruction is not destruction, rather transfiguration, blah blah blah… It's so easy to write in a mystical register.

Writing can be so fake.

Fake. This world is not fake. I wanted to type, "This world is fake." No, that declaration would then be fake.

Some psycho said, "I think, therefore I am." My response: "I think, therefore I am fucked."

A neuron ticking, zap. Twitching.

How beautiful it is that this current breakdown (breakthrough?) will feel hardly real, like it never happened, after I fall asleep today.

Isn't the human condition such a joke?

I wrote this a while ago:

Instead, I find myself analyzing despair and the things that trouble me. Instead of feeling God's abandonment, I now only feel an indifferent universe where I am just a variable in an equation that will inevitably be reduced to the ultimate sum, the heat death.

Instead, I find myself analyzing love and the things that rupture me. Instead of feeling God's abandonment, I now only feel his love in an indifferent universe where I am just a variable in an equation that will inevitabily be reduced to the ultimate sum, the heat death.

Transfiguration and rapture, his love.

(Stockholm syndrome?)

Stop trying to hide from this piercing affliction. Succumb to it. Let it pierce you. Let it shatter you. Shatter.

I fear for older me.

Is there hope? No. Not for me.

What hope is there for my brain? What hope is there for this crown of thorns (cheap imitation) inside my skull?

I never wanted this.

In fact, if I wasn't ruptured by darkness at such a young age, I would reason I would not feel this way. A painful life? Yes. But magnitudes less.

Yet I also walk closer towards truth.

The problem with supposed radicals in my city is that they are devoid of rupturing affliction. Show me your capability to organize workforces of blue collar and industrial workers rather than service food shops. All organized workforces are a win. But show me how you get people who depend on employing a particular skillset for a particular amount of money living at the edge of financial precarity (most families) to unionize in an at-will state. Work in the factory for 12 hours, and then let's see your capability to organize and remain free in the mind!

I'll wait.

I want to raze imaginary heroics into dust and ash. Childish behavior. Focus on the world in front of you! Stop spending time doing anything other than the thing!

It all is grating. Nothing is good (lie).

Scrape, scrape, scrape.

I returned to work tomorrow after PTO (oh no). What will I say? What will I do? Can I bear to be a visible human?

Shatter!

Restore my gouged eyes. Then, God, please sit in front of me on that beach and gouge them out with your own fingers again. Tear them from the socket. Shatter them. Let's repeat this cycle forever, in love.

Shatter!

…

The basis of this writing is the result of what others would think of an irrational breakdown. What happened to me the last two days is so mundane, so annoying-but-typical, that I'm sure you and my therapist would say this writing was not in proportion. I agree. But to my brain it was catastrophic.

Yet, after sitting with this agony and letting it pierce me, just 15 minutes later, I feel powerful. I feel capable, that I encountered the real, that I encountered God.

"Transform unbearable into mystical, or die"

Why did I keep chosing to continue?

Good night.

Postscript:

How prophetic my writing about wanting to take a break:

I think it's reasonable to want a break. But I understand that I am inherently tortured by my nature, so we shall see how that goes.

…

Last year was a period of extreme crisis. It was incredible. I welcome nothing more than for the light of this earth to shatter me and leave me atomized, only the essential bits remaining. I truly want to vanish from my own brain, to just live a domestic and tamed life, to be nothing more than a slave to the unnecessary derivations of this society. I wish I never needed to write (the only time I find clarity); I wish I never had this brain. But I find God in my own destruction.