Cheers people. By the time you're reading this, it means that I probably have stopped talking about this completely, in its full form, in real life. On the internet, I've always abstained from getting too deep in, and now, I'm letting it out as much as I can for the first and last time.
This is about how a historian loses his mind, and the historian is me. My ancestors were known for digging for artifacts too (mostly for gold), and legend goes that one of them lost his ability to talk after a certain digging trip. He came home and never was able to speak again, and never looked for a way to communicate about it ever again. So, artifacts and insanity is something that runs in the family, but I will have a few warnings and requests.
1) This is not fiction. I wish I could treat it as fiction.
2) This is not to take lightly. Do not think too much on this. Do not EVER make fun of certain aspects I will underline later on.
3) The light will prevail. Keep it on your mind. Never let this go.
4) Do not talk about this. You may talk, but do not EVER simplify this. Do not let people make fun of this. Do not take this lightly. Simplifying this may lead to joking about it, which will be a bad bad thing to do.
5) Again, the light will prevail. May God bless us all, over and over.
Statement: My intention of writing is to tell people about the sanctity of the good, and life, and any blessed concept associated. I am standing against the bad, death forced by people unjustly, and any damned concept associated. I have made my warnings. I am but in a human form. I apologize.
The first part (what you'll read now) is written close to midnight of 4-5 March 2024. I'll begin.
I have never been too sane, I'll admit. I've always had serious mood up and downs even as a child, but I don't know when I lost it. It has been gradual. I remember having an identity. It started to fade. I had things I liked doing. Now, I don't remember any. Just as concepts. Images in my head. Art, music, writing; some I still make. But there is something behind it all.
I do not remember human enjoyment. I like life similar to a person on a train, knowing that it will stop. I enjoy life like this. But I don't remember human enjoyment.
My sense if identity is only on its feet with one word: HISTORY. When I forget who I am, I know I have something to do with history. I have trouble remembering my age. I know my hometowns as a concept, but they are as foreign as surgically inserted memories. I do not recall being present in any place other than the one I am in right now. Only as fading memories of dreams. There are times I can't recall or refuse to say my name, and I haven't said my name for a while now. I am using multiple names as pennames, one of which is taken directly from historical people.
When all reality fades for me, I know two things:
God looks out for me.
History holds me in her arms.
And the rest? I don't remember. It fades. It fucking fades and my human life feels like an empty house. I am too confused to understand why. Even now, I cannot recall how I started the text, and words feel foreign. I don't know how well the writing will turn out, but expect many flaws. I am disconnected.
There will be two incidents, the second one being extremely serious.
FIRST INCIDENT:
This consisted of multiple parts. I do research about a certain war-worn country. Thinking too much about it messed me up. Massacres and death have never been so real. I had nightmares. All those people, I couldn't save (it was half a century ago, I wasn't even there). I skipped classes, locked myself in my room, even barricaded myself in.
It's all blurry over there. I don't remember. I don't want to. I just remember one night, walking around the campus at 3 AM or something, and looking at the lights. The walking person (me) felt different to the me now. My consciousness was in his body. His body was like mine. But he was not me. He was technically me, but I wouldn't consider him to be. He was walking, and he looked at the lights, and he felt alive. Because, for the last few months, he (or I, or we) had been feeling like he was dead. And that moment, looking at the lights, he said, "Maybe I haven't died 50 years ago. Maybe I am alive."
It was relatively fine, still serious ups and downs but not death, until summer came. I was in that country for a visit, and I would stay up at night and think. Thinking about the horrors that happened. And the people who didn't fucking think about it now. All those bastards who claimed that we needed to HATE to stay alive. The cycle of massacres. Moonlight came inside and I was so torn, so torn with no answer, so angry at everyone outside who didn't fucking think about the massacres.
Fresh in my mind. Massacres fresh in my mind, the only reason I'm alive is because I wasn't born 30-or-so years prior. And it killed me over and over. I'd be on my knees, gun at my head. Dead. Over and over, I was killed. I died with everyone, still missed everyone, and it drove me mad.
I came home, something fucked in my head, and I was dragged to the psychiatrist. In ten minutes, she called it Bipolar (with psychotic features) and we started treatment rightaway. And I kept spitting hate about politicians. My father would bring food to my room and I'd barely leave the bed or else I'd be causing serious harm to myself. Till the meds kicked in, I just remember the songs I listened to. I'd talk about medieval torture methods. Nothing else on my mind. Nothing else remained.
I handled the next few months relatively well. When I felt a psychotic episode coming, I'd force myself to sleep. I skipped an ungodly number of classes. Hell, one of my classes mentioned "war crimes" and I skipped class for weeks afterwards. It felt so horrible how people could talk about DEATH with a straight face, PUTTING HUMAN WORTH, HUMAN LIFE into an equation where money would prevail. "Politics", they'd grin. Their suits too clean, make-up too proper, cologne too nice for me to compete with. Me with that shepherd hat. Scarf I haven't washed for a year. I'd go to the fields in the war-worn country with that on. And that hat.
Most of my memory is a blur ever since I've had my first big psychotic episode (been 2.5 years or so), so I can't really recall what happened in between. But I just remember how it felt like.
And the entire world stands in front of you, clean clothes, untroubled faces, their proper grins
And they have the sinister devil of hate in them, they tell you in formal ways that
Your kindness is nothing but futile
And they need to keep killing, for it is the path to glory, more money, budget and votes
And this is the rule of blood feuds, countries, what nations are built on, ugly but good for you
They want you dead. They want people dead. They say it openly
They never hear the gravestones speak.
SECOND INCIDENT:
At some point, I made it my goal in life to serve humanity by serving history. Showing people that kindness is sustainable. It's better than fucking CALLING FOR PEOPLE'S DEATHS, right? I felt so fucking happy to be standing for the good. I still do. I was so fucking joyful, energetic, all that. It was the last stages of my manic episode, getting into a pleasant hypomania (milder mania). Then, depression began.
I knew what I was expecting. Don't lose your hope, don't lose your drive, remember that you're loved. Indeed. I was just sad. Brain chemicals made me sad for no reason, it was expected. I functioned very well for a while, working on my studies, and even deciding to start a research project. Presenting it to my professor, she agreed that it would be awesome, and she would qualify it for a term project. We agreed.
I spend one day a week in a very beautiful historical place in the city. It takes like 1.5-2 hours to get there, which is okay, and I spend my day admiring the beautiful artifacts I love. I've grown to feel like it's my home, and indeed, I've walked there just like fellow citizens a thousand years ago did. I still do.
In there, they have a building. A historical building I cannot get myself to name at the moment. It has water. It is underground. It has big stone parts, exactly 336 of them, but you can only access 286 of them now (because some were broken, some were closed-off, etc). It is around 1500 years old (in its current state –other parts are often older). This is the context. It is a big underground place, it has water, it is lit by different colored lights.
I will not say the name of the place or the name of its function because it really affects me badly. I would rather not hear it by anyone else's mouth too. But you may guess its function. It supplied water, that's it. It is Eastern Roman.
The big stones, I'd also rather not say what they are called but use a neutral "Chimera" instead because they are made from different parts, are what I am working on. (I can sometimes say what they are, but I'd often not).
I look at the Chimeras, take photos of them, note down if they have any writings/marks/damages, keep an archive and document on each one I can access. This is a one-man project, so it is very hard. Keep in mind that I am not the healthiest, so I can only spend 2-3 hours standing in there before I need to go outside and call it a day.
First session: I looked at the Chimeras. There is an attraction: heads of a certain mythological lady figure that people call ugly, but I think they do her dirty. There are two of them, carved on big Chimera bases. And people often wonder why the ladies are there.
So, I was looking at one of the ladies, and I looked at the Chimeras behind, and I felt something.
You come home. Your father's shoes are outside the door. You enter. There are guests. Your parents and siblings are talking with the guests. Everyone is happy. It's normal. It has to be. But your father's shoes are outside. He always puts them inside. There is something wrong. The guests don't know why it is odd that your father's shoes are outside. But you know your father. The guests enjoy their stay. You know that something is wrong.
Something was horribly wrong in that place and no one was willing to say anything. No one around me could notice the shoes outside the door. The Chimeras –something horrible had happened. Something horrible had happened and no one was willing to speak. The Chimeras and I faced each other. I felt so small there. Chimeras are 9 meters long. And no one would speak.
I later on managed to dig deeper in the history of the place. That place was made after certain riots led to the burning of many parts of the city down. And I noticed that the lady meant something about that, probably. Must have been.
I told that to my parents. They joked in a kind way, but also knew that I was discovering something very interesting, and told me they supported me. I kept working, but started to grow quieter. Proud of my work very much, but a little quieter. Often forgetting to text friends. Choosing to stop texting my friends. Isolation. I was quiet.
Second session: It was a week after the first session. I was so excited and all. I went in, started documenting, and I kept complaining in my head about the crowds. I felt like I was tied to the place, but I felt like I was in control. Oh Lord, forgive me for this. How wrong I was! How wrong, how fucking wrong! I was just a small creature of flesh there, standing in front of enormous Chimeras older than any of my traceable ancestors! God forgive me! How could I be in control?
It was a great session in terms of documentation. I went home at night, slept, woke up, processed some of the data, spent the day, and slept.
Remember the warnings: Do not take it lightly. Do not make fun of ANYTHING. Do not think too heavily.
I saw the nightmare.
It was very heavy. It wasn't a nightmare, but rather how I woke up. I woke up in the middle of the night, unable to say my name, but my mind kept telling me about imminent death. Death. Death of me. Death of loved ones. Death of all. Apocalypse(s). Dissolving. May God forgive me, but I feared. All those things I took for granted, even the very notion of existence, was challenged my brain I couldn't control.
I will not detail this.
Normally, I'm not afraid of death. But in that moment, I was defenseless. I stayed up, cooked, had multiple panic attacks, and finally managed to fade into sleep.
I then remembered a detail. I had been having nightmares for the last two weeks. It was either the very night of visiting the place, or the night after. It was once a week, about concepts like death and existence. Stuff I normally wouldn't worry about. They weren't even nightmares, but waking up mid-panic attack. The first visit was pre-project, I had the panic attack that night. The next two sessions, I had it the night after (data-process days).
That night was one of the hardest nights of my life. I didn't know what I was doing wrong or what I was supposed to do. In the end, I decided that my mistake was this:
Treating the Chimeras as mere objects.
They were symbols of the burnt city parts. The riots. And the riots, they were not mere "riots". They had ended with a MASSACRE of OVER THIRTY THOUSAND PEOPLE.
I felt sick, of course. People were now walking these very places with no memory of the MASSACRE. At best, they were laughing about it along the lines of something like "Hah, the Emperor asserted his dominance". And that night, I cooked until morning to calm myself, repeating to myself that MASSACRES had no excuse.
And this was over a thousand years ago, so there was a significant gap between me and them. But am I not the child of a land who suffered MASSACRES too? The mirrors of it all, the loops... I felt so helpless.
And I wanted to talk about it. I wanted to tell people that it's so fucking wrong, something is so fucking wrong, because something always has been so fucking wrong. I wanted to tell them PAY ATTENTION TO THE [CHIMERAS], PAY RESPECTS TO THE INNOCENT, REMEMBER THE FALLEN. But I was unable to even talk about the certain place. Unable to start the conversation.
A friend texted me a few days later, to which I replied that I wasn't feeling well. She asked why. I couldn't formulate a sentence. She was there, all cheerful. I was here and all the thoughts in my head were about existence, damnation, curses, blessings, DEATHS, MASSACRES, the loop of humanity, flesh and stone, and Chimeras. I could barely tell her, "There's something dark in there," because she knew about the research. I told her that a MASSACRE happened. She was sad to hear about it. I don't remember what else we talked about.
I ghosted a friend group for a while, I don't remember how long. I had trusted them, trying to ask them for advice. I told them about the Chimeras, barely able to type. They never took it seriously enough to respond, simply moving the conversation. I then ghosted them for a while. I didn't want to partake in human activities. Talking. Texting. No, I didn't want it.
MASSACRES. Forgotten. And I was one man with horrible memory, fading identity, an unhealthy body.
Was I supposed to complete the research or completely abandon it? I took a while to think about that. In the end, I decided to continue. Under this, though: I was to assert the MASSACRE aspect of things. I was to ensure people never disrespected the Chimeras. I was to assert over and over that KILLING INNOCENT PEOPLE, MASSACRING INNOCENT PEOPLE, IS A BAD THING. I was to tell them that, if they ever went into the place, they were to think about those beautiful innocent souls.
They were to treat Chimeras like people. Every Chimera. If there were 336 Chimeras, and OVER THIRTY THOUSAND people were MASSACRED, it would roughly make a hundred beautiful souls for each Chimera (more, because some Chimeras are gone now).
Besides that, I didn't talk about the research. When my parents called me and asked, I'd explain the technical parts of it. I was unable to process half of the data of the second session, too. I just couldn't.
Nightmares kept going. I woke up a few more times with panic attacks at night. I felt like I was failing. What was I doing wrong? Was I disrespecting? Was I unable to honor them? I felt horrible. I felt damned. I felt like I was dying (which is not too unreasonable of a fear, considering the health stuff I've had before). I was completely unable to talk about it. I'd brush it off, saying it was unimportant. Finally, my partner pressured me on call. I let everything out. My partner explained to me that God doesn't hate me, God wouldn't curse me, things were okay, God was too loving to disregard us for eternity like this. I haven't had a panic attack since then, it's been almost a week.
Though, I wasn't able to look at the photos of the place or Chimeras without feeling panic. It was just like seeing the face of an abuser, and I know how it is. The sheer panic. Just from seeing a photo of the place.
[Statement: I am not disrespecting Chimeras. I am trying to make people understand the mental toll of Chimeras making me remember the MASSACRES. It's like looking at a field full of muddy tombstones, all those people murdered in a MASSACRE. You are one person. You want to clean them all, but how can you? You are one person. You are one unhealthy human being who can't take this anymore. And you mourn for those you don't even know. God bless their souls.]
Third session: That week was bad. At some point, I was unable to speak proper words. I was unable to understand any word other than basic A1-A2 level vocabulary even for my native language. I just couldn't do it. Any concept associated with bad would make me sob like a child. I felt so helpless and cold. I had to rock myself back and forth to calm down. I dragged myself to my class, talking to myself on the way to calm myself, and barely was able to write propery sentences. I just couldn't comprehend "big words". "Big words make me feel so small", I wrote.
The session was on a Friday. The days have been blurry so I had to check the calendar for this. In that morning, I was doing another thing in a government building, trying to get a job done. Afterwards, I got into the metro. I was very disoriented. People seemed taller and things felt bigger. I felt small. I didn't like it. I was begging myself to go back. Go back. I didn't want to go to that place. I didn't want to go there.
A part of my brain said, "Maybe it's not that bad. Let's go and see for ourselves, okay?"
And I didn't want it, but I did. I forced myself to go there. I dreaded it. And many parts of the journey is blurry other than the parts I sat in the metro, rocked back and forth, thinking, "I don't want it. I don't want."
I went into the place. It wasn't bad. But it was foreign. I've been there multiple times, mapped the place by hand multiple times in different ways, I walked back and forth many times between the Chimeras, I know how the structure is. I just know it. [But I am not in control]. Going there, it all went foreign. Yes, I know the Chimera there. I know the Chimera, which side of the Chimera has a mark, which part is inaccessible, the designation of the Chimera on the grid-map I drew, etc. But everything was foreign to me.
I dissociated. Took my pen, notebook, whatever. Started noting things down as usual. Like a McDonalds worker taking order, not really thinking. Write that down, look at this, document that. Surely. I did. And the presence of humans next to me started feeling so foreign. I didn't want them there. I didn't want humans inside. I didn't want to be inside a human body either, but I didn't name it there.
And in my last Chimeras of that session, I saw something. I thought I was hallucinating, because I had been hallucinating for the past few days, so I just decided to take a photo of the Chimera in question and sort things out later. Nope, it was real. There were writings on the Chimera. Inscriptions. Some faded, some faintly there. And all the other damaged Chimeras made sense. They had parts broken off in purpose so the inscriptions could be erased.
I felt overwhelmed. Change, use and reuse. The constant state of how nothing remains but everything remains. Bullet refilled, same shell but different contents. Something like that. Something like that.
Looking at myself, am I anything other than a Chimera? I noticed a photo of me with my sibling and my grandmother on my shelf. He looks nothing like me. Because me doesn't include any flesh definition. It only includes the feeling of being present in the given moment. Looking back, I don't feel connected to any of my "memories". Even to last week. Even to my dear parents who worry about me.
And I think about my family. My grandmother is a nice lady, I like spending time with her. My parents make no sense to me, as in family ties. I mean, they are nice people, so I like spending time, but I don't understand why they call me. Our blood is similar? Legend goes my father held me after I was born. Okay, I fell down and soil held me for a while too. I hit my head on a pole on the street and it held me head during impact for a moment, too. Why? Why do I have some kind of "big tie" with my parents? I don't understand the concept anymore.
The other family I have is history, a certain period in history I'm studying. I like to call certain people "my uncles, aunts" etc. But I just thought about one of them, Emperor Octavianus, and I felt, "Was he real?". It felt like history wasn't real. My only anchor to the world was gone. Ever since, I've been mixing up the dates.
I've lost it. I stopped talking to people. I stopped talking to my friends. They are hateful. They promote HATE. They promote things that can lead to HATE. They say it's okay to HATE. Not in those words, but they think they are glorious. It will grow and kill people as concepts. Grow, big concepts, MASSACRES. And I see death.
I am tired of looking at people and thinking about death. Whenever I talk to someone, thoughts about their death come to me. They will die. Graves. Mourning. Ways to die. So sad, so unfortunate. I talk to my parents and I can only taste the feeling of death. I hate it. I don't want to think of people dying. I don't want to look at a beautiful square, people happily walking around, and see the memories of nothing else but
DEATH.
Those Chimeras... some of them are taken from places that were burnt in the riots (shortly before MASSACRE). The place was built a few years after the MASSACRE. The memory remains and I just know that something is as wrong as my father's shoes outside the door.
And I look at people. Unaware. They hate. They forget. They make fun. They laugh. I try to let out my worries and they ignore it, they make fun, they brush everything off.
I don't understand many concepts anymore. I don't know who I am. There are times I can't say my name or refuse to do so. I wrote this one, didn't I? I don't remember what I write, I can't distinguish thoughts/dreams/hallucinations from reality, and I don't remember who I am. I'm supposedly raised there, I study here, my name is this, I was born then, but they don't make sense.
Because I just don't want people to die anymore. I don't want them to die. I don't want people to tell me it was a good thing they died. I don't want them to forget the death. I don't want praising of hate. It's bad. Why would you praise death? Why would you do that to me? Why would you say that?
Many things that remind me of my flesh self started to feel disturbing. I don't want mirror. Face foreign anyway. My hair is weird and I don't brush it anymore. I wear just whatever that covers me and keeps warm. I don't want. Why is it bad thing to not want people to die in bad ways? I don't want massacre. It hurt my family fifty years ago. Hurt fellow citizens thousand+500 years ago. I don't want.
It feels like my people, in any era, died over and over. Their memory was erased over and over. And I'm the last survivor. And I can't tell anyone. I swear I tried. They brushed all off.
Meds aren't working. I can't take it anymore. Especially loss of sense, loss of self, loss of concepts. I only exist now and I'll forget later. All my notebooks: heap of writings I don't remember or recognize. Scary. And I think a few days ago I asked father to come home. I'll see psychiatrist in a few days.
It is 6 March 2024 and the days have been agonizingly slow and blurry.
Yesterday, I have come to a realization. It was an answer. The last 1-2 weeks have been the labor. Now, the answer has been born.
It is to a grand question. I wrote down in my diary:
I have been listening to heavy metal, industrial, shoegaze type of songs just to feel something. I've been listening to some things on loop just to feel something. I've been eating (normally, I eat so little, one meal a day or two small meals). I am trying to feel. I feel. Then, I lose the feeling.
I do not criticize anything other than murder and alike anymore. I do not feel. Hollow. It is not bad, it is just... I got rid of the infection in my body and the lack of pain is very foreign to me. I didn't know that we named pain "joy". And I feel so foreign. My flesh isn't mine. Nothing is.
And my mother doesn't like my shepherd hat. She asks me to wear the proper one. Why would it matter? It is not my flesh, not my hat, and she is my mother for a very short time in the entirety of existence. All my responsibilities to people is shaky, I do not feel. Nothing binds me to half of the concepts we take for granted.
The entirety of everything is so grand, and the grandness is very four-dimensional (because humans are uniquely as grand as the universe, but the known universe holds the humans, so it's intertwined in a weird concept-shape). It is overwhelming.
I was in the womb and I have been born.
Nothing that people have called "joy of life" or "goal in life" mean anything to me now. I am lost, wandering, a loose concept on time and no understanding of personal identity. I do not feel bound to my age. My name has faded long ago, the one I use currently is after an unknown man's grave stele from thousands of years ago, I remember kneeling in front of the artifact in the museum and tearing up for his beautiful soul.
I am thankful for flesh. I am thankful for these temporary things. I have been disillusioned and they feel like chewing a gum. Not keeping me full, but keeping my mouth busy. Every now and then, it loses taste. And people's advice... they don't work. Because all feels futile.
I am only worshipping and trusting the Creator of it all. The Creator has been called by many names in many religions (or lack of systematic religions). Call the Creator: Lord, Krishna, Allah, God, perhaps even Chaos or Zeus if you'd like... all would come to the same conclusion. More than often they write as He, sometimes they use He but don't mean gender (because they don't have genderless pronouns), etc. It wouldn't matter. I trust the Creator. I am not lost –I just saw the lack of a road.
I managed to say the name of the research place yesterday. Not full name, but its function. It isn't important to point it out at the moment.
I don't know what my mental state is at the moment, but it all started with some nightmares after a historical research, looking at big stones (Chimeras, as I call them), and I ended up here with no connection to my identity or my surroundings. I do not know how stable or unstable I am. I have no clue about my personality other than "I don't like hurting people", which is enough to live by for now. The rest? I have no idea.
I will beg the shrink to give me a little taste of worldly things so I may function as a member of the mortal society. Other than that, I am completely unable to function in human ways. And I can't even talk about it.
Regarding the question I have found the answer to: I cannot ever share it. I can't confirm nor deny it. It would be like laborless birth. Slit open body, trying to push something out. I wasn't prepared. I still am not. I cannot go back. I cannot ask to go back. I hoped –but it wouldn't work. It makes me feel ill.
But here is an exercise: What is something, once you hold onto (or realize you've been holding in your hands), you don't EVER want to let go, that it terrifies you, and is unthinkable? If your answer is something along the lines of "my loved ones" or "health" or alike, live a life full of virtue and take care of all you cherish, and God bless you.
My answer was something along the lines of that. It still is extremely important in my eyes. Yet, the answer I've realized... it drives you insane if you're not prepared, and we are NOT prepared.
You can live your life without answering the question. It is not important on the path to living a virtuous life. You help people, you help humanity, you cherish the entirety of what you can perceive and even more. You feel so loved because you are (both by other creations and the Creator). And this is enough to know. You don't have to think about the loss of things all the damn time. It will drive you insane. It drove me insane. It made me ask. And I wish I never did.
In a way, it's like getting crippled. At first, I wished to go back to my healthy self, my normal life. Then, a long time passed, and I couldn't remember the concept of healthy legs anymore. It was my new normal. Perhaps it will be like that. Perhaps I will feel okay with my current state. But, for now, I am detached from every mortal thing including myself. There are unspeakable thoughts in my head. When I look at something, it tells me that it's needless. Futile. Lost. Impermanent. Mortal. Rotting. Rotten.
I want to go home, but I don't remember home. No concept exists in my head anymore.
9 March 2024.
The psychiatrist gave me new meds to take alongside my old ones. She listened to me. I was willing to take anything. I took the pills (antipsychotics) and slept for around 13 hours total, ready to sleep further. Trust me, it is so much better than the other way.
The answer to the question: It is not just one question. It changes depending on the wording. It changes depending on the capacity of humans, the point in history, and what God wills. It is an "answer" in the way of "our answer", meaning that it depends on our capacity to understand and word it. All in all, it is something so grand that it can break us. Think of a zipbomb. You could upload the Library of Alexandria in there, it could be a precious zip file, but it would still be a zipbomb for a normal computer. Thus, "the answer" drove me insane. It wasn't even a full answer, not one answer, but the start of it. Like Plato's Cave. Do you get it?
I have been zoning out continously for the last... week or so? Maybe a few days? I don't remember. My eyes never focus anymore. I look like I've been out of a war, and I have tons of things to say about it. I look like I've been traumatized, and the symptoms are the same, but I wouldn't call it a trauma. The concept wouldn't apply. Just the effects.
I have tons of things to say. Hanging out with family, they say something, and I could participate if it was the old me, but now I can't. I zone out. I hear, I understand the thing being said (most of the time), I know the things I can say and am expected to say, but I can't bring the words out. Can't. Just a word or a nod. I can't. There's a disconnection between me and my flesh, and it includes emotions. Human concepts. That sort.
I've been trying to force myself to indulge in activities of the flesh. Things like eating seem so unnecessary now. I know I need it to survive, but I can't bring myself to feed myself. I've been served food in the family house, I ate it, but I can't connect with it. Eyes don't focus, my hands get too cold while walking but that makes no sense, and the chronic pain in my legs is just so fleshy. Pain and pleasure of the flesh. Emotions of the flesh. It's hard to feel love and connection to my own flesh-family. I know I want them around. I know I want them to be okay. I love them in that sense. But the rest? I'm at a loss here.
Something in me creates distant memories of walking through the streets pre-MASSACRE. As if I had a family there. It brings me something warm for a second. "Come on," they say, "let's take a walk," and there will be no MASSACRE. But I know people who won't like it if I tell them about this. Modern people think it is bad that I am learning about anything other than my flesh-ancestors. They will say bad things and I will feel so hollow.
I get happy when I feel anger, sadness, or jealousy. I have been trying to poke myself with these emotions so I can feel connected to my flesh. They are manifested in odd ways, but still, I feel like a flesh human and it's okay.
Few things I've learnt:
Humans are fascinated with ants. Ants are small. Ants have systems. They are precious. We love their systems. Therefore, no matter how small, every creature is wonderful.
Prehistoric people had tools. They were simple. We are fascinated with them. Therefore, no matter how simple, everything is wonderful.
It is not a full flesh disillusion we need. We need a balance. Not everything is about flesh. Not everything is about non-flesh.
Sometimes, you shouldn't seek an answer if it's too distant. Let it go. You don't need it. Pursue virtue and you'll feel fulfilled without further answers.
We are loved. Even beyond the word "love", we are loved and cared for. Even beyond the concepts.
As I'm walking around, completely changed, unable to focus on things, just a hollow shell of what I once was... I'll leave you with one last thing:
"The answer" wasn't horrifying. Horrifying is how I named it because it was a zipbomb. Anything beyond the flesh would be so hard to grasp for us, anyway. It created shock and insanity. One has to think of it with other examples to calm down. Things like having a place, being loved, existing in different ways (flesh bodies – beyond-the-flesh mind).
We're in good hands ("hand" as in metaphor –we are not being held physically by big big hands).
We have been so harsh on each other all throughout history. Every moment you HATE someone, something –remember the MASSACRES. It would take just a little bit of a push to make you into a human-monster. You could easily advocate for DEATH, MASSACRE, all that. You have no say over other people's lives, no matter how much of a "burden" they are. Think of eugenics, how easily people call for the "forced sterilization" or extermination of disabled people. Think of racism. Think of anything.
Every single fucking example of how you think of groups of people as CATTLE deserving to be SLAUGHTERED, every fucking moment when you think of kids as anything other than beautiful young fellows (i.e. you name them things like "shat-out stains, unnecessary bastards, ugly creatures etc.), every time you feel DISGUSTED of the mere existence of your fellow human beings...
Just remember that these thoughts have MASSACRED people, MASSACRING people now, and will MASSACRE people in the future. And you will actively be contributing to that. People like you have walked on the very places you're walking today, and they hated like you, and they MASSACRED and were MASSACRED.
Choose mercy even when you feel disgust. It will ease. Trust me.
That's all I'm going to say.
End note: I tried to read it a few times to correct typos or sentence structures, but I forgot the top half when I came to the end. I can't focus at all, and when I do, I have trouble understanding words. After all, this is about going insane. You don't expect a perfect academic paper or anything like that.
Cheers. May we all be blessed. My intentions while writing this has been nothing but merciful, in good faith. May we all be blessed, again.