I have great
difficulty remembering people’s names, faces and presenting a context where
just about any of them make an impression which is not worthy of recollection, but
rather sufficient to surpass the threshold of my natural inclination to avoid
interaction with other humans. On a
Freudian level this hints at my sickness.
I feel in my guts
I have a form of autism, a slant, a variation, a hue through the stained glass. I am not sure how to label the label, but if
I had to I find it hard to discern that this urge to avoid rather than enter
dynamics of human socialization is normal.
Given the world of human love, need, and reciprocation I ponder the
origin of such sensations, but ultimately place it deep in my ego.
Nature and nurture
permeate through my decision forest cluttered and stumped. I know from before being too young to even retain
many memories in kindergarten, I remember the phobia of an eighth-grade buddy
who was supposed to guide me in class and wanting no part of his words.
I think of my
older brother who absent the technicality of birth order feels so much to me
like a younger brother or a median brother, but the aspects of socialization, which
could be found to be most useful in deciphering based on his seniority are
found to be muted, to nil as the world has always been a crash course in
avoidance.
So in part of me
rejects the authority of most senior figures, absent my parents, whom I regard
as rational introverts who have steered me productive directions absent
religion. I feel they too have disavowed
religion intellectually, but feel an escalation of commitment spiritually which
does not allow them to sever the entire social ritual without a suitable replacement
paradigm while their sense of time has slipped past the fifty-percent tipping
point of illusion.
I have however
felt the urge to challenge every employer I have ever had with what I feel is a
healthy sense of acrimony to spur growth.
For if I am to be a complacent droll dolt then I become machine-like and
sign my death warrant to a cult of synchronized monotony. However if I retain the blade of dissidence,
the confidence to talk back on occasion, to assert my volition to challenge a
status of this is the way it has always been done in times of intellectual
stimulation I feel I am still participating in the greater aspects of my
existence including my contribution to the workload of the super organism
though healthy commerce.
When I come down from
my office, I tend to avoid eyesight. In
prior terms of employment I got to eat alone in my office. I liked that; I brought my lunch or ate by
myself solitary at a client. Nobody
bothered me. I could read a book, write
a poem or wander on the internet. Yet
now I have to meet with people and indulge in the horror of mandated shop or
small talk. When given the choice I will
talk work, as there is only so much people can discuss without getting
personal.
To discuss with a
filter of subjects off limits puts me like a dog in a kennel. My natural inclination is not to participate
in such plastic circuses. Give me a few
acquaintances with minimal boundaries to see social nudity and familial truth. I relish the uncomfortable for it is where
doing breathes.
I am snug basking
in who and what we are beyond the teetering consternation of a body which
brings up the weather or watches waterspouts or speaks of clouds or members of
their clan who have no bearing or context on any known interface to my informed
landscape of information. To do this
while the environment of existential, cosmological, sexual, philosophical,
fanatical, irresponsible, political, fantastical, or socially-flavored with
that healthy twinge of uncomfortable are available and yet declined for us,
give me silence. Give me alone. Give me my own head.
I cannot take the
walk to risk time-sucking mammals stealing my chance to think, to progress with
such dastardly indolence-inducing seizures of droll. Give me the void. Give me the productive measure of a keyboard
and accountancy. Give me the script of
authors to peruse, but this is like a man trying to put his penis in his own
mouth; it is a feckless endeavor that may sound appealing to the masses, but is
ultimately barren of productive value or actual life.
I don’t understand
why most people do half the things they do.
Maybe I have systematically self-sabotaged my life to avoid
participating in such festivals. I am
not sure. Maybe I am angry for being
excluded and have found a coping mechanism in convincing myself I did not want
to be included in the first place. I
gather it is a combination of the two.
In the current
end, I do not see the point of most of the actions of life outside the
construct that humans are a super organism like ants. We rarely acknowledge our limitations or the preponderance
of our activities to fit roles and pursuits to the greater end. We hustle in factories of economics to
process resources and meet needs to distance ourselves from nature and rise
above as a species.
Some of us go to
temples and churches and such to feel like there is a common sense of something
connecting us that we can blame or thank for what is difficult for us to
describe or comprehend. Others see the
randomness and ignore the balance of science and the purity of volition carried
out by instinct, sexual selfish gene principles and stupid ass mistakes all
species make in error or by suboptimal election.
This would include
war, violence in most forms, environmental rape, racism, sexism, and the basic
iterations of bigotry, but most of all the inclination to engage in small talk
as an escape to avoid confronting the reality of these and other prominent
aspects of who and what we are, because once stripped of this recreational form
of living, one is redirected to the simplicity of raw existence, which leaves
most members of the super organism dumbfounded, anxious, and embarrassed at how
little one actually does to recognize the universe in context to the self.
The self begins to
shrink and the universes stacked upon and around one another and the true
tablet of time commands the podium. All
this talk of god, which is just another form of egotism at its root parceling
out self-responsibility from volition to indemnify one’s placement in time,
this talk gets shaky like an earthquake of assumptions and one is forced to
face exploration naked. There is no
copout, scapegoat Jesus or what may you, to associate morality, eternity,
salvation, or ration towards, but these concepts must be prepared and consumed
with one’s hands for one’s plate and not in the convenience of the crib
buffet.
So people who want
to talk to me, talk to me, but I am so often left disappointed or afraid that
the level of confidence and faith that I have in others to actually have a damn
thing to talk about is an infertile garden to which I have attempted and failed
to find nourishment over and again. What
I have to say seems like an ocean of babble irrelevant. All the small and large talk seems pointless
in the end.
I am just a lost
son of a bitch holding out for a purpose trying to convince myself I have a
clue. “Nobody seems to know nothing
anyone” like Billy Bragg saing. Maybe I
have just spent these decades waiting for somebody to talk to about a damn
thing that made sense. I can count the
meaningful conversations in under a hundred, maybe fifty. Given the sunsets it feels like starving. I am so god damn hungry. Something is going to have to die to fix it,
faith, hope, expectations, ration, worry, thinking, normalcy, something has to
die.
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