In Victoria training my brain

Donned my partici-pants last night and walked around the inner harbour. The world comes here I noticed. Then again why not? The seas draws us, our earth mother fluids beckons, seeks our immersion. We live cyclically birth to death. Start to finish, step by step. Seeking where we started, striving to reach our inner core, our earth's core.
The world is with us and we are with the world.
We seek out places of transition,borders, edges, the liminal. Our bodies questioning even as our noisy, distracted minds ponder anything and everything but here...and now. Our bodies take us to look, we miss instead. We pass by the small, the miraculous, the heartbreaking, it all gets dismissed and rendered inutile (ok, that's probably not really a word).

Time to rise up, wash up and get out there I guess. Look around a bit. Feel the currant of all things passing around and through me.

Possibles

Possible titles for my new submission:

Crisis Clinic
Inundation Outflow
Trepanadation
Suicide Notes
bomb Swelter (what the hell, it's a brainstorm)
field effect
intermission
interstitial
remnants
soft boil
Post (after, behind, following, subject to, consequently, as a result)
Traumatic (injurious, harrowing, horrific, terrifying)
Stress (Prosody, pattern of rhythm and sound, strain, tension, hassle)
Disorder (confusion, chaos, disarray, upheaval)
PTSD aka Post Upheaval Upheaving Upheaval
Stuttering Psyche Batman


...

Eating Doubts

nighttime. Awake.  In my head eating doubts. Old shit new shit batshit. Reading a book that at times connects and gives me ideas, thoughts of 180 (degree) actions. It occurs that the connections are for the longings for difference. This long death of a life I am living. And worse, killing those who espouse love for me. Killing their love. Killing their want of life. Certainly draining my own away. It falls away. Little pieces dropping here and there. Feeling empty, the kind of empty I generally fill with food or shopping or playings spider, for hours. On that odd occasion I complete the game it doesn't matter. That strikes me as evidence that I will never get better. I've not the courage to find and do what I must for any chance of happiness. I am afraid if I go where I need to , the hurt I create would be beyond repair. A hurt of the undeserving. The ones who are juat trying to be happy, be content. I am not content. I am not on the right path unless I have somehow strung a line with a carabiner so at minimim I'm riding a long still in touch. I am meant to be me - an artist I think, but at root, me. Sometimes I feel endlessly assailed by the outflow of others sometimes I ponder my eerie disconnect. An inneffectual, life. I consume and mostly just excrete.

permeation of anxiety

not doing much, did reconnect with my psychologist, which was a relief to detox some of my most recent self-inflictions. Was quite spent upon my return home from the eastern adventures. Dreams continue to be vibrant and enticing. I wish I had a way to record them audio visually, I think it would be quite interesting. There is a great deal of art, sci-fi entwined with people from my past and present, situations reminiscent of past and permeation of anxiety. I hope to continue ith massage and neuropsych soon.

The Danger of Dreams

can't think of anyone I want to talk to, the guilt of talking when it's all down is too much most of the time, but I need to talk so I'll talk to myself, hopefully without too much harsh judgment, I'm fucking tired of being tired, I hate being unhappy, I'm full of hate, I feel hatred when i hear people talk about focusing on the positive, what's the point when i have no sincere enjoyment of fucking anything? I'm  sick  of it all, tired, tired.
my dreams are fricking amazing and all i want to do is stay in them, that to me is dangerous and completely unrealistic cause if I was dead I don't think I would be dreaming anymore. I think tho that I am trying to dream harder and harder and to stay there, when I reach this deep sleep and am awakened mostly what I feel is resentment and disappointment.

Seeping Dreams

why do I remain haunted by stupid shit that happened over a decade ago? These aren't even life threatening or harmful to anyone, but they were missed opportunities, places perhaps where my fears limited me, or I allowed them to. doomed to live an insignificant life. Why am I so obsessed with being famous? Would it mean I was worthy ? Is that it? Why cannot i just be happy with what I have, feel satisfied with what I have accomplished? What haunts is a feeling of not living up to my potential, a familiar experience to many I imagine. Dreams lost, drained away, seepage into the surrounding soil of our lives detritus.

Will

Pondering the spirit and it's sublime companion hope. Sublime because hope is a slippery slope, it can sustain you with crumbs and is evil.
The spirit is independent of the external I believe, when all has been said and done to a person it is the internal that decides the next course of action.
Belief in oneself, reliance, faith in whatever internal strengths remain after all has been said and done.
Without this, there is no hope. I think in order to sustain my will to live, this internal will must need exist independently of anything and everything else, it must not be subject to the external. I must  be able to feed my will and take this nourishment, for me to survive, for me to prosper. When I look around the world and all the things being done to people, to animals, to the earth herself, I cannot but believe anything else.
If my spirit is resilient, I will abide.
If my spirit is fragile, it is only a matter of time.