There are forms of therapy, ideology, philosophy and religion that preach we must accept ourselves for who we are, what we are and what makes us us, only then will we be at peace with ourselves and the world abound. A less afflicted person has to meet the guiltily blushing shopaholic, nervously shifting anxiety sufferer and maybe a stray mirror adoring narcissistic and maybe resolve to reduce their ego, forge an iron clad budget and plunge theatrically deep into therapy to exorcise the root of their anxiety.
Merry fucking hip happy high for them
In order to achieve a conformity of loose definition in terms of finding peace I have to deal with:
- The razor blade wielding self-loathing depressive looking to cut his wrists
- Anxiety suffering paranoid who feels inadequate compared to everyone he meets
- Fear ridden holdback who so fears the negative consequences of releasing his potential that even talking about it in a normal medium is a stretch
- The self-destructive self-loathing anarchist who just wants to implode privately, then explode in style
- And who can fathom that deluded mess in the corner telling everyone that he’s a god damn normal person, whilst trying to find an acceptable definition of normality to comply with in relative terms of each situation I encounter
Now tell me; who has the ego!
Sanity is a self rewarding label proudly slapped on with glowing pride by the conformatists, happiness a smugly smothering state where by all inferior existences are horrifically shamed and of all the bull crap cultivating those terms; love, give me a pistol with a single shot and I’ll step out of the room. The only thing that really means a friggin damn in this forsaken ruthless razor of a world is functionality, a singular term made purpose in the very core of any survivalist logic that ruthlessly persists to thanklessly endure.
I am unstable; I am internally a bad day in a warzone with added acid rain and a crapstorm from hell, but I’m functional
Functional pays bills… … … sorry folks, trying to think of anything that might at least failingly raise a smile about that bluntly nil statement, and as to how I remain a serviceable excuse of a person;… … … again I’m trying but I got jack!
So I tell the razor blade wielding depressive I’ll do it tomorrow, put the razor to the anxiety sufferer and say “Work or die”, restrict my potential with safeguards a prison would call extreme to coax out the holdback, pull another fuse from the self destructive crazy’s bomb and let that deluded mess front the bunch.
And until the day that fails “Hello world, I’m (real name here) and happy to be here” (and to think people buy that shit!)
But of course you all believe me when I say nothing is wrong and I’m happy, don’t you?!