Nothing, Once Again and With A Purpose

So, it's been like some kind of psychedelic mirage for the past five or six years.  It was getting there for quite a while before that, but without the psychedelic part.  I've watched Martin Scorsese's Rolling Thunder Review several times over the past few days because it makes as much sense as anything else ever has. 

I'm in a large, unprotected penal colony of about 1,500 feet.  I share this overly large prison cell with 9 cats, none of whom volunteered for this mission.  I know they want to run free, or they would if they hadn't soaked up all the fear stored away in these walls.  I thought I was caring for them, but I've only made them neurotic.  They would probably be happier dead than living in this prison, but I had to selfishly care for them. 

I don't know where this unhealthy need to care for people came from.  I've had it for a while.  I know the poor cats are miserable and hate their lives, because they've started picking on each other.  They've been doing it increasingly since I was forced to leave them alone for 3 months to take care of a person.  I'm here, imprisoning these cats, because of my sick need to care for people.  I don't do it like a good person.  I do it in a way that says I Will Not Be Defeated. 

That's really all I have left now - to survive the most difficult piece of life I've been thrown since childhood, perhaps.  Nothing I do is healthy - not for me, not for anyone.  Not even for the well-fed cats.  I can see that they're getting ill and demented from my sickness.  I thrust myself into their lives, against their better judgement, and at force. 

Nothing about me has ever been right.  I can't imagine what it must feel like, to be a real person.  I knew fairly young that I was born abnormal, but so much more has been revealed over the years.  I wish I could say something like, "I'm neurodivergent," but that's an illness come by through legitimate means. 

Maybe I have an inherent evil that's so bad, I can't even allow myself to see it.  Far worse than attempting to be accepted.  Maybe I actually am some kind of demon, like the Pentacostals claimed.  There's the demon, and there's me, except the me part never got formed much, so the demon has been predominant.   

Probably anything I do, the cats will be better off than they are here, in this penal colony.  There is an element of that "I Will Not Be Defeated" that won't let me set them free.  Also a big part is played by I Will Not Abandon You.  In my dealings with the human race, being abandoned was a given.  I literally never knew what not being abandoned felt like.  It took me a long f*****g time to find out it wasn't actually the norm.  As for me, I simply do not abandon.  My brain plays an unending stream of the past, and in that song I learn the importance of I Will Not Abandon You, and I Will Not Be Defeated. 

Maybe I need to paint the walls here at my dead mother's house.  Take down her chosen artwork and nick-naks. A haunting is a possibility, maybe.  These were her cats.  When I was done taking care of her, I stayed on to take care of the cats.  It's not really that simple, though.  This penal colony has also served as a nice, comfy cottage in which to hermit myself away from the world that I now see clearly, unfortunately. 

I know I have to make a major life decision, and I have to make it before the end of the year.  This place is no longer that cottage, nor can it be.  No possible choices seem worth living for.  And I know the cats would rather run free.