Just Howling at the Moon

I'm getting very close to just shipping all my work on Musings of Tong here... once again it's 11:15 and noone's posted anything. Sure it's probably my fault for never approaching anyone to post and instead pushing my bizarre plan of assumed motivation on Damacus, but we're going to keep getting these until someone spontaneously emails/calls/smokesignals, god forbid, outright asks me face to face if they could post here... or I quit this disgusting obsessive compulsive social mutism.

Yes it's probably downright insane, this constant overthinking of people. I'll try to give you some insight here. I can't speak for anyone else, and for all I know we could all be prisoners of the inclination towards outward perception, or my fears could be well founded and the world really is just some obscenely cruel joke I should shed myself of as soon as the chance arises.

Whenever I'm in a contact with another person my mind kicks into overdrive. My opinion is, everyone's got an opinion of me. Maybe I'm standing wrong, maybe they're waiting for me to say something, maybe (read definitely) I look/sound/permeate stupid. Yeah, I think that's normal, crippling self consciousness. But the question of another person's motivation also arises. The first question I find myself asking is 'Why the hell are you talking to me?' The conversation becomes this attempt at profiling, at learning of an individual.

Alright normal enough, now this is where it gets bizarre. I'd never once consider myself an honest person, I'd also never consider that a bearable way to get through life. I lie obsessively throughout conversation, I try to avert a person's gaze from who I am. I find the best lie is poisoned with truth. I'll tell someone something about me, yet give false reasoning behind it. It's like saying, yes I do feel sad, but that's because nothing's gone my way today when everything has. I often find I do this when I need a reason for something, for a species that's been subjected to the world's latent absurdism for the entirety of our existence we struggle to fathom anything with no discernible cause. We're the erratic freaks on a vanilla planet. This lie becomes another brick in the construct of self. Suddenly you can't remember what you hid behind that hoarded wall of aspirations and values. Hell, you'd be convinced it was nothing if it wasn't for that feeble outrage at everything you are. How many of our dreams were something we imagined ourselves? In reality are these delusional futures just reflections of what we see? Values just rules on stones? Hell, can we even own our own happiness? Probably, I mean, at it's core what were we at first? Surely you don't remember. We're all just strapped down and when our eyes open, it massacres us all and crams it's decaying ethics & fraudulent promises in the empty shell it left behind.

So why do I want to talk to you? To get to know the world I'm already infected with? Damn, maybe that's why I'm an impotent conversation starter. The second you question anything is the second you get the truth. You get your own truth when you look at yourself, afterall, you're just answering your own questions. You can't cushion the blow, the truth is agonizing usually, our first aspirations are lies. We make ourselves out of deceit. When you shoot yourself with your truth you better get on your knees and hope your self infliction isn't going to ravage you anything close to what you think you deserve. Alright so the tumour of 'self' awareness is tearing away inside you like some serrated cannibal infant, just growing and shredding until it stands in your clothes, this sick regression to what you think is you. Alright so I don't like me, I just mess me up by trying to change me, the HELL? I don't even know how much of me was ever me to begin with. But you're still talking to me, maybe we're the same. Maybe this constant cycle of self destruction and reconstruction is something we share, something other people will understand, how we're built by people as bewildered and incompetent as ourselves. Maybe we all keep deluding ourselves that we can build ourselves better than our mistaken parents, than our incumbent society or our fumbling retarded god. It's sick to even think of the result of this mess, this insult to all the lies we wanted to believe, trying to rebuild itself.

But you're still talking, for a second I think you're actually interested. This one fleeting moment of unity opens the ceiling of this pitch black prison to let the light in, it releases the chain or serpents tying me to this dank stone pit. I reach up. Not for the light, but to close the hole with mirrors. You can't come in. You can't see me like this, you can't see this manufactured freak self enclosing the real me I can't see. So my roof closes over again, a perfect fleshy wall of pleasantry and wit, protecting you or me from me or you inside of it? I give you back yourself as a generous gift. Whatever I think it is you saw in me is your reward. I patch myself with your opinion and reinforce the walls of my tomb. Why every word might as well slit the throat of the original self's neck.

I took bits of everyone I saw and gave the amalgam life, I gave birth to myself, my very own bastardised flesh marionette. He'll smile at the sun because his mother told him to, he'll languish in the rain because that's what people do, and to his truest of friends, well you're all just befriending you...

To call it narcissistic is branded pessimistic. Conversing is just rhetoric, your walls get thick. Our mutual learning of each other becomes self fulfilling, fuelled by suspicion, hatred and yearning. But the worker keeps on building, imagining a bridging, to the greener pasture of an alien soul. But if he found that endless field, his friend seated beneath a tree. The tree would rain innumerable truths while the worker slashed his vein, the serpent bites itself and reignites the pain. Standing in the desolation of the others heart, your own little transferred part, of the poisoned self you've sown, why can't you just realise you'd be better off alone?

Hmmm... maybe this really was more suited for Musings... and I can't see it helping our dwindling readership either, so call this my selfish little rant if you will, posted here because I think more people would read it... and like Musings I'll bet I can make a little prediction...

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