I Don’t Wanna Be Linked In

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I may have experienced a nervous breakdown a couple of days ago, but after some deep rest, my mind quickly reconstituted. All it took for me to fall off the deep end was not being able to secure a place to live all day: two different apartments in a row in two towns I’ve lived in before and didn’t particularly want to live in again anyway. Still … this triggered a spontaneous drunk which developed into me raging in the woods and fields like an articulate baboon. I staggered around in the woods, laying down on the wet ground every now and then to rest, licking moisture from leaves to relieve my agonizing thirst. I knew better than to wander back into town to rehydrate.

Forget about survival for survival’s sake. I don’t enjoy being alive, and sometimes I feel hypersensitive even in the grip of my own body’s demands. I laid upon the ground wanting to sleep through the anguish. Wherever I go there will be liquor stores and the potential for drunken outbursts followed by panic and anxiety over loss of control. Is there anywhere where I will be able to just calmly endure being alive? Are some of us just wired in such a way that certain environs or situations have these effects on our nervous systems? I doubt there is anywhere I would be content, so I have no choice but to embrace dissatisfaction as the ultimate truth of my existential experience.

In actuality, compared to some people I know, I am keeping my head together fairly well. Some folks are in a Living Hell Inner-Directed Nightmare … madness in epidemic proportions. And yet, there is a thin line between “having a grip on reality” and “being in the grip of intense anxiety”. How to describe the Nightmarish Sensation? Is it possible to be too hypersensitive for most industrialized environments? What is one to do when one experiences the epidemics of madness seeping into their “fragile eggshell minds”? Where is one to hide? We can’t hide from our own bodies, our own minds. Even those who understand that it would be better were we never born do not want to die of hypothermia.

Very vivid dreams. I visualize a memory of the experience, but I am unable to articulate it into alphabetical symbols. It was like a futuristic Steppenwolf (see Hermann Hesse) … strange flutes … an open-air prison environment … railroad train going through forest of huge trees with tall heavy fences higher than the trees … the people all imprisoned even though outdoors.

I awaken with an urge to remove myself from LinkedIn, not even remembering how I became registered with them. Instead of deleting the account, I decided just to fill in some of the corporate-minded fields with the satirical truth. I felt dizzy so I ate three fried eggs and scrapple. I snapped a photo with the webcam and inserted it in a post, Scorning The Corporate Mind Fuck. Then I closed my account with LinkedIn. I don’t want to be linked into that world.

I have to admit that I feel much better not inebriated. Maybe there are only certain situations where alcoholic inebriation would be enjoyable for me … I can’t deny the relief I experience coming to my senses when my head clears up. Just being able to calmly read literature or write a little is a delicate exercise that I tend to under-appreciate. I don’t fathom the complex nerve-endings involved in these processes until I become incapacitated. It’s a strong mental quality to be able to laugh at the Abyss, to face it squarely. All the industries from entertainment to spectator sports to sitting in a bar to dancing in a club – what is it all about if not merely to distract the masses from the fact that there is no purpose to being alive, that there really is nothing to do, and that those who reproduce are following mechanically a blind irrational will or traditions accepted without questioning the purpose of it all?

There is nothing to do once you’ve figured it out, and now you are better able to face the Abyss.

I enjoy writing when I am mildly depressed. Actually, being mildly depressed feels very sane.

I refuse to feel any shame for not following the gortards’ idiotic norms … the mass hypnosis. It is better for me to write in a “diary” than to sit in a theater watching some stupid Hollywood blockbuster.

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