les essais d'un fossoyeur.

 peace is a strange state of mind. even then i seem to be on a lookout for bulls entering my china house.

my peace is something i have never really understood. the absence of constant worry can be discomforting at first. is my wait for catastrophe indicative of my controversial personality ?

something feels [redacted]

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note i) - your internal locus of control is self destructive. to relieve the self of hyperfixation, which in turn is preliminary to anxiousness. understand that all but the self is not in your control. it is futile to attempt to change nature. it is advisable not to attribute the self to externalities, and defocus your consciousness onto a variable (one which very evidently lies outside the perimeter of jurisdiction). to customise environment is something humanity has tried to do since the beginning of time. customisation, in all its essence is destructive. in that sense, comfort is too.

comfort dies with distance and time. an unappreciative slow death. yet, as a martyr.

learn that it is pretty useless to obsess over your life experiences, applying analysis and intense calculation to discover truth and meaning. allow life to flow through you as is, without judgement or question. 

truth can only be felt, not thought. and this may offer you peace.

que sera sera.

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note ii) - the restroom is an integral symbol in a woman's life. this is not written in irony.

in a world where appearance is still viable currency, it is difficult to eliminate vanity. if not vanity, at least a conscious awareness (which eventually adopts vanity, therefore unavoidable). i wonder whether femininity would be femininity without the significance of the restroom. this is the evolutionary industrialization of girls.

i dislike using public restrooms. i only like the bathroom at home. if i can call nothing mine, i shall call that mine.

my bathroom is sacred. all the shampoo bottles are filled with my vanity and rage.

whatever will be will be.

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(side note - is a negative view a projected outlook or accurate in perception ?)

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note iii)- expression is at some extent, taught. i realized that when i didn't know how to be angry. so when i had to express anger or its equivalents, i just stayed sad. somehow all my emotions learned to be docile and compliable. now, my infantile rage comes as a result of being unconsciously subordinated. or more accurately maybe, perceptually subordinated. 

everything regarding me seems to be so insufferably distorted, that it drains me out. i cut out the womb of a flower, and on observation i have received a mutant.

i wouldn't want to have a child with me either. my deformities should not leave my perimeters.

i think i could be a good mother but that is one heartbreak i will not be able to take. i choose safety over the sensations. let all the pain i experience be mine.

the future's not ours to see

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note iv)- my melancholia is an ugly scapegoat. worn out now like an elderly prostitute. therein lies the question of whether i would still be atypical if it wasn't spoken of. is birth ever independent of its christening ? 

i have a list of people who couldn't take me anymore. i also have a list of people who couldn't leave me. ever. when people can't take you, or leave you, you're stuck somewhere that gives you claustrophobia. sometimes as an ornament. other times as a foster kid nobody really wants to bring up. 

responsibility out of compulsion is foul obligation. 

i think the only way to exit the cycle is to renounce responsibility. which sounds convenient and aloof, but the reliability is a safe bet.

if all actions are penultimately miserable, why must i be consciously miserable ? 

no joy is worth its aftermath.

que sera. sera. 

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note v) - "uncanny" in german is unheimlich. or un home like. freud called the unconscious mind 'unheimlich'- a contorted understanding of the fear of the known. a fear of the familiar. 

something that has seen my bare bones, cannot possibly be this hideous.

something   is   wrong.

something   is   wrong. i can't tell what's wrong.

something   is   wrong. i don't know if i should be running.

something   is   wrong. i don't know if i even can anymore.

“….the “uncanny” is that class of the terrifying which leads back to something long known to us, once very familiar.”

Sigmund Freud, “The Uncanny” 1919.

what will be, will be.

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                                                               Untitled - Jacek Jedral.

 and most of all, i am terrified of rejection. 

i will not accept a life i do not deserve.

below is an excerpt from The Velveteen Rabbit i found worth referencing.

"Real isn't how you are made,' said the Skin Horse. 'It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real'

'Does it hurt?' asked the Rabbit.

'Sometimes,' said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. 'When you are Real you don't mind being hurt.

'Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,' he asked, 'or bit by bit?'

'It doesn't happen all at once,' said the Skin Horse. 'You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

-The Velveteen Rabbit