So Long and Goodnight

pretentious unfinished thing I did a while ago during my mcr phase. I kept the title for nostalgia's sake. It gets better, but only a little bit. I kind of hate it.

There was a pearly unreality about the whole predicament. Everything seemed to shimmer in the hot early morning sun.

That morning had been, to whatever degree, exactly like the previous, and the previous before the previous, and to all intents and purposes, exactly what the next should have been. But apparently this morning was destined to be something different. Was there something in the air? I couldn’t recall if I tried. There may have been a slight buzzing in the ears, a slight tremor, a minute disturbance, something barely distinguishable yet of such importance in the lives of a few that it made itself present in the air of that day. Then again, that could be the tainted memory of the event staining my recollection of the previous hours.

Making them seem more important than they actually were. Leading me into yet another existential crisis. Another spiralling lack of something in the bottom of my stomach, another crack in my delicate perception of everything.

Am I getting ahead of myself? I couldn’t be certain. These memories come back to me in scattered fragments. I often become frustrated by the clarity in which I frame certain unimportant actions, such as the anti-clockwise manner in which I stirred my coffee that fateful morning because of some stubborn OCD tendency of mine, the sickly orange of the stockings I chose to wear, fuelled by the ridiculous subconscious notion that I was making some statement or something against something by choosing that colour.

How I remember the uncollected thoughts that float past you when you aren’t thinking of anything in particular and haven’t quite had your coffee yet I have no idea. The quiet ideas that you know seem silly so you do not confront with any important parts of your mindset, that you let just float past. Like butterflies. And occasionally you will pick out one of them, one that actually rings true, or false, or important to you. And you will then brood upon it and not let it free until you have extracted all you want from it.

I am not getting off track. This is relevant, in a backhand sort of way.

I am not entirely sure how I came upon the idea that morning to do it. Was it a combination of things? Was there a pattern in the mechanics of the world, the interlocking fragments of being that made up that day that spoke to my unconscious mind? Or was there really something in the air?

The delightfully unhinged way I have of remembering the past, the technique of which I seem unable to shake, is playing tricks on my mind. It leads me to doubt which parts of myself I have created, myself.

What reasons could I have, I wonder? I could fabricate my actions to protect others. That would be consciously, unless I was detailing my exploits for my benefit only. In that case I would open up to all the lies I have told, white and otherwise, the lives I may have indirectly destroyed yet turned a blind eye to. The situations in which it would have been beneficial to lie, but of which my conscience, which works somewhat backwardly to others, it seems, deemed it fit to tell the truth.

My conscience. Aah. What a wonderfully perverse, twisted being I find myself discovering within myself. The essentially selfish core of my existence, finally surfacing. That which forces my hand when the logically-thinking, humanitarian part of me surfaces, that which inspires me to act against the ‘humane,’ that which twists my words and pressures my actions into fighting the brainwashing the murder machine called society has drilled us into.

I am finding myself slipping deeper into the trap of analysing myself too well. I could simply be referring to the equally stubborn urge that fuels my low-level OCD; the shallow, minuscule transgressions I fill my empty life with in some full-knowingly hopeless retaliation against the hypocritical rules we find ourselves abiding against our conscious will.

There I go again. With the consciousness, and with the subconsciousness. Is it my excuse to face so-called ‘reality?’ It’s almost a paradox, really. Do we simply place blame on our subconscious mind when something becomes too deep to handle, too meaningful, too meaningless to process? When we see things as a whole for a second, and act upon whatever our ‘subconscious’ deems purposeful, then revert to drowning in the meaningless drivel of everything and wonder what on earth we were thinking?

Humanity is nothing but a spectrum of acceptance. The levels of what we are willing to accept, or to believe, or how much we are willing to believe, separate us. The mad are only those who spent far too long staring at the empty space that is our existence, and were too far-gone to come back without side effects. They see, you see. They understand that comprehension is an impossibility. This can only be understood once one has completely lost sight of what they tell us is ‘reality.’ They forget the trivialities. They open that empty space in the bottom of your soul that keeps you on the ground, stable. They open that door that you find yourself falling through now and again, the door that leads you to ponder exactly what the purpose of life is. But us, we right it. We close that door, and force ourselves to forget about it.

The mad, they hold this door open for far too long.

It’s all so perfect, really, so neat and contained. The organised way in which life, within itself, has created boundaries and rules, so much like the contorted beliefs of society, but with so much more sensible punishment for line stepping. You dare question what has been honed into you since the day of your birth? You dare open the door? Did we not fairly warn you that the reward for disobeying is a glimpse at what you wished to see, but, as always, with a cost?

Another possibility, another explanation of my fractured memory, could be that

No, I have to stop. Let me explain right now that I do not believe in a higher being, ‘god’ or otherwise. I do not convince myself that others push my actions, least of all a higher creation. I like to think I am the highest form of evolution, ever.