Who am I to you?

[vishnusavestheday]

So I've typically kept quite a bit of information to myself. I've journaled alone, cooked alone, explored the city alone, meditated alone, prayed alone, drawn alone, read alone, sang alone, played guitar alone, exercised alone-- the last few have changed only recently. I don't live alone.

 

I wish I could describe myself as an idiot who spends little time doing things he claims to do. I'm probably not, though. I probably spend more time practicing crafts than most people. It's unfortunate really, how low the bar is for people to exist as hobbyists. It feels like a borderline a professional claim to say you do something out loud as it is.

 

 Most of my coworkers just go home and watch Netflix for hours a day. They get invested in their Asian subtitled dramas and that's their existence. That or they play video games. Wow, I guess that's why I have so much time. I don't play videogames. 

 

"Who am I to you?" is a question I'd like to explore in the next coming weeks. I'm interested in witnessing it evolve as a continuous phrase taking reflection deeper.

 

I've also been trying to comment on this forum for about a month, with some occasional posts every couple days/weeks. Funnily enough, I come to this site every night and try to respond to comments on topics. I generally overlook my own response before I send it, judging my potential posts as negatively impactful. I've literally been moderating myself too thoroughly, almost too aware to be careless about what I say. 

 

Why?

 

I've been moderating my words more because I've noticed that if I were to publicly take a side or position, by the end of the day, I am a hypocrite. Take seed retention, for example. The moment I talk about seed retention or attempt to defend it to debaters, the more I've already fallen for the temptation to respond anyway. Actually responding to public discussions has caused me more relapses that positive growth effects. It's an entire red carpet rollout.

 

I have absolutely zero trust in other people's authority as rational and typically relate to people once they posit the depth of their consciousness in conversation somehow. 

 

I'm already getting the urge to delete this text wall or cut it into a text document again.

 

Be seeing you.

[vishnusavestheday]

12/22/2022

I had a desire to write this entry in my journal, but I decided against it. There's no point in being forgotten here or there anyway. At least here my handwriting isn't the issue.

 

I was listening to the songs my cousin and I bonded over before she took her own life. Specifically, it was "Teenagers" by My Chemical Romance. When I visited her home in Colorado a week after she passed, she had illustrated the opening lyrics of the song on a tombstone drawn on the walls. I was so unaware. I was so blissfully ignorant.

The contemplation brought me to a deeper place. One of wishing to have encouraged more about the realization of life. I wish I had recommended psychedelics to her. I wish I felt more safe to vocalize my enthusiasm for these chemicals. She might have been excited for a future that included psychedelic experiences. 

 

I wish I was more transparent to her about the nature of psychiatric medicine in the family unit. She and I were the only adolescents in our family tree to have dealt with accused mental health issues. I should have told her so many things about how I coped with much of the psychiatric abuse. How I coped with assuming the "allegedly effective" patient treatment games with people in order to dissuade further medication.

 

Instead I didn't, and she must have assumed that I never did that. She assumed she was alone in believing anti-depressants don't work. 

 

Then again, she and I were in different mentally troubled bubbles. I was generally a stylistically divergent, countercultural, religiously extreme A-plus psychonaut in highschool. She was a suicidal B student who felt pressured to go to extracurriculars and church. I might not have had any chance to tell her any different, no matter what I said.

 

Still, the last time we met, she and I were distantly friendly. I had started on my journey to sobriety and God. I had already been about a month sober from all smoking by then--green and brown herb. In that, I didn't want to tempt myself or my teenage relatives to take drugs because of the risk of social danger I'd put myself in.

 

Now, weighing the odds, the world wouldn't know the tradeoff I'd make anyway.

 

There is a dynamic here. Desire to share psychedelic experiences juxtaposed with private integration that deepens personal initiative thought. If I shared my every realization on psychedelics, or felt "safe" to do so, I'd be wasting my time. 

I keep thinking about when I was homeless too, a summer back. 2021. What a passionate race that was. I remember when I prayed in the middle of the road one summer night, spooked from the God-fearing hellscape I narrated to myself. Only a few weeks ago did I piece together the names that were Gomer and Hosea. I'll share it in the next post.

[vishnusavestheday]

When I was first homeless, the nights weren't too bad. I had my own space in the cool Los Angeles air, summer night. Nice, peaceful. Finally I could meditate in silence and on the obviousness of the problems ahead.

First, I was homeless. My parents and family were worried sick most likely.

Secondly, I had to eat. Panhandling was not an option. I'd just eat out the trash. Or steal.

Thirdly, I had to stay active. I had to wash my clothes. Usually in the fountain nearby with soap. 

Fourthly, I could visit the guitar store every day. That was always fun.

Fifth, I could go to mass to remember what day it was.

Sixth, I could write poems, draw, and read all the time. This I did most frequently. I went through 8 sketch pads and 5 notebooks alone

that summer.

See? Obvious problems, obvious life. Perfect. And I could actually understand street culture! What a blessing. Can't be a homeless poser, after all. 

 

I never did any drugs harder than DXM while on the streets. I never bought weed, but I found copious amounts in bags in trashcans and near houses in public, literally unguarded. I found pristine rolling paper packs, made tobacco cigarettes, spliffs when possible. It was sick. I tried drinking alcohol in the grocery store once. I seriously disrespected myself with that choice. I've never had alcohol stronger than kombucha since that Ralph's experience.

 

I must have walked 7 miles a day at that point. 
 

I loved the clothes I wore. I loved walking in the cannabinoid street-beat haze in my black faded cotton blazer trying to make words sound interesting to myself. That's another thing. Other pedestrians become like infinite situational props. As long as you don't disturb the peace too extremely, you can get away with many bizarre things.

 

It's strangely clarifying as well. The homeless underground engage in this group conversation similar to the allegory of the cave. Every word you hear on the street other homeless people vibrantly understand differently yet similarly every day.

 

Alright, back to Hosea and Gomer. 

 

I hadn't even read far enough into the bible to know I was being shown the nightmares of a man who already lived. Hosea had a wife who cheated on him with many men. She was promiscuous and mothered many children in his home who were not his. Then again, Hosea just remembered that God had prophesied to him that he had to marry this girl despite her flaws, this Gomer. He knew what he was getting into, he just wanted to see it through. Just for the sarcastic forgotten humor I could have, I followed a ghost of Gomer out of my home to hangout in Los Angeles.

 

In the end, Hosea ends up finding his wife chained as a slave. The slaveowner is basically selling her. And he tells the slaveowner that it is his wife. The slaveowner replies, "she can be your wife, if you pay for her." Quite disgusting and demoralizing. 

 

He pays for her, loves her all the same. The end.

This story I could not find when I was homeless. I felt lost and haunted that demons actually attacked me on the streets, berating me with femininity. I was attacked on all sides by the demonic belief of evil women. Seriously, it's a hell I'd have to unpack.

 

But I gained quite a bit of insight from it. Specifically, that biblical stories define scandal. Furthermore, to a conspiratorial degree, scandals today can be critically derived with critical spiritual story awareness.

 

How did I end up knees down praying on the asphalt on an empty street in the Los Angeles midnight? I could not find the Hosea and Gomer story. I started thinking, "Maybe it's Dante and Beatrice. Maybe it's Romeo and Juliet. Maybe it's Shiva and Kali. Maybe it's me being a loser thinking about some celebrity too much." It was all of these things. When life grabs a hold of you like this, it doesn't just show you the edges of your contemplated world, it shows you the shame of everything you are thinking about that you define as what is.

I didn't want to be thinking about this more than I already was mind you.

 

The possibilities of my hopeful future began to dwindle. By then I had set up camp, I was temporally safe by most means. I could be as I pleased. But my possibilities dwindled. Why? Because I couldn't answer myself. I couldn't explain this ONE narrative.

 

How would I define this hell? I'll explain it in the next post. 

[vishnusavestheday]

Here's my current least enjoyable, most memorably traumatic hellscape. I coped with it for a while, it's far better than some extreme times in my life, definitely. Still, it's the most clear to define of my memory and has clear insight.

 

Imagine that you are conscious of one possibly different world.

 

This is very specific, and I will disclose that it's not what I believe anymore. Nonetheless, here it is.

 

Imagine you can consciously assume other people in your mind. Most people do this anyways, not a big deal, right? Now, make it a big deal. Imagine celebrities know you, know your problems, know your love life, your sexual desires, etc. Imagine you share a fated telepathy with a woman. And in order for you to find this woman, you have to have faith in your moral actions to make your way and ready the path for the fateful day you begin to date, court, marry, have kids, grow old, etc. Like a matchmaking maze filled with life decisions, only knowing you were promised somebody, specific or non-specific.

 

Now imagine you go homeless for the express hope that this reality to leave you alone. You're boycotting life. Imagine that you effectively want the world to stop judging you morally. Instead, the world will worsen you and your begging mentality. My attitude was too smug and condescendingly unassuming to remind myself that the world thinks of me, not merely do I think of the world.

 

Imagine this fated telepathy woman still checks in with you after you've gone homeless just to "let you know" mentally that she's out fucking all types of guys to reach your social hierarchy level. Because you're lowest of the low. Not to make you jealous, no. Just to make all other avenues of your thought process collapse and make fun of you as your thought processes turn into her fuck buddies. 

 

And I'll take it back to me. Imagine that you thought you were a smart person in the beginning. Now you are on the street, believing it will make you wise. No shit. By the time I was finished, I was grown up enough to know that most of the time the world won't give you any chance to prove to it how smart you are, especially when you go out of your way. 

 

But I remember once I'm homeless that I'm a staunch religious man, I'm strong in belief. How right of me. Except that the world knows it's the only card I have left to play, idiot. Nobody else would be as aware as me of the games I play.

 

I gave it an embodied expression each day. I expressed the pain of getting almost everything not quite right in my drawings, my poems, etc. But I dealt with it still, even though the petty fornication jealousy narrative continued for months. It was so ingrained in my everyday that I can remember it all with only a word. Kali.

 

I hope that people are extremely fucking harsh to my story. They shouldn't like what I've been conscious of. They shouldn't believe I'm even sane on this planet. I shouldn't have been blessed with such a wonderful capacity to bear such shame. I should be judged as amoral, unethical, irresponsible, shameful, un-insightful, lacking, base, and toxic. That's what's clear to me about myself.

 

Frankly, I'd rather be this way. 

 

TLDR: I hope this don't make sense to you. When others express they don't know what I'm saying, I'll relish in the fact that I know I am speaking consciously.

 

Toodles. Till next time.

[vishnusavestheday]

12/25/2022

Merry Christmas!

Today I was going to talk about something seriously frustrating, damning even.

 

I felt inspired on the topic of Religious Sexual Continence, Fornication, and "sinful" sex.

 

I wasn't raised Catholic, but a while ago I bit the bullet and wanted to be accepted into the church community with confirmation-- the whole 9 yards. In my studies, I have become more and more acutely aware of the Catholic doctrines dictating sex. I just wanted to journal today to bitch about priests being virgin idiots who never get sex, so they are unrealistically harsh on humans. Quite a change of pace for me.

 

I wanted to delve deeper into the Catholic church because of its ease of access and continent encouragement, but insofar as actual sexual activity, I am getting to the end of the road. According to Catholics, it's a sin to ejaculate anywhere other than a vagina-- with the exception being wet dreams. Unacceptably, the exception defines the church's sense of conscious accountability.

 

I wouldn't even be opposed to the sex-before-marriage oath, should I had enough time to really grasp the partner I'd be looking for. Back to ejaculations though. How does God really explain the point of wet dreams? The stupidly shortsighted problem with Catholicism is that it instantly attaches "meaning" with virtue and "meaningless" with sin. If you'd look online to try to find an explanation for wet dreams, you will not find an answer sufficient to recontextualize the reasoning God would put in place to design us for this "base" experience.

 

I'm all for retaining male seed too-- I see a purer purpose and meaning in life. I just don't understand how what some celibate priests have to say about my sex life has to do with Godly connection in a relationship. Okay, I'll try for the sake of argument. My best guess is that the priests just don't want to be sex counselors. That's me being a realist. They don't want to hear on Sunday that Charlie's wife was giving oral. 

 

Here's the worst part. If I'm laying in bed with my wife right next to me, but we do not have sex because she and I are refraining from having more children (in accordance with Catholic belief), and I have a wet dream to reset my sex drive, how am I actually being faithful to the expression of manhood that I should be? How is the hormone regulation involving my personal chemistry bettering the worship of God if it takes me away from the presence of my wife? 

 

That's an entirely different caveat as well! Wouldn't sleep-induced orgasm in a relationship cause emotional disconnect and bring the relationship away from Godliness? This is why I do not believe these virgin Catholic priests. 

 

Furthermore, the only alleviation of sleep-induced orgasm according to Catholic belief IS the orgasm of procreative sex. The church doesn't accept divorce. The church doesn't assume any responsibility for the frustrating paradigms it ensues upon its believers. Why? Because that would, among other metaphysical trespasses, assume that a priest is acting as an individual-- not as Christ himself.

 

I suppose I was taught a better basis of sexual connection than these ever-virgin priest conceptions could realize. I don't even want to go to the same heaven as them. I want to go to the place where vegans go when they die.

 

But I don't care. I just want to be able to go to Catholic mass whenever, go to Buddhist temples when I want, meditate how I please. God can send me to whatever reality he finds me most useful honestly. I'm an unfaithful believer. I'm just a Jain monk in extreme disguise.

 

But I always get so excited about apostasy. It only takes about 10 minutes and them I'm settled back in wanting to have a common ground with other Westerners. Yes, I am a psychopath for insisting on wanting to be Catholic. I am only religious for common ground. Or I'm absolutely in love with God regardless of what is to be believed otherwise. 

 

Eh, what's wrong with garnering good graces? 

Merry Christmas.

 

[vishnusavestheday]

Probably the last post of this journal, just because I feel concluded in this journal topic's title.

"Who am I to you?" has been an interesting thematic question at this point for me.  

 

It's evolved into "Who am I living for?" a realization that I've had multiple times in my psychedelic past.

 

The realization that paired with it was always an emphatic "Oh! Me, of course! I'm living for the joy and pleasure derived from myself! The realizations right now! Myself! Wow!"

 

"Who am I to you?" was never a public question up for debate.  I've always responded to my own question, not for the attention of others. But look at me humble myself publicly, as if I don't already know. 

 

The question is a hook of compassion for those unawake. They really have to awaken to this, to know this emphatically rather than simply read it or memorize it like it's a rote prayer for help. You have to want life like you just jumped off a sky scraper but have the chance to reach back for the ledge. The call of your soul must reach maximum volume to know the infinity of life.

Thank you. 

-First Journal Topic Adjourned-