I had a recnt Religious fight. Not really a fight. A comment attacked, and then they ran away. Too bad.
THe Bible was probably less about lessons and more about communal analogies.
I did a really nice video tonight 10pm. If I watched it I could probably augment it with the blog. I had some strong pride riding in the background while I talked. It made the smile creep and gave me an extra boost.
That and the weed of course. Strong weed. Stronger than you just imagined as you read that, but part of that story is me wanting to believe I can take… blah bla
I think my brain might enjoy being normal. I think that’s it’s job. Science shows us the brain normalizes everything it can. It can even normalize sight that is upseide down or backwards and given time, normalize. I think it normalizes all my highs. I feel the high, get the smile, but when I am alone, and have no living things to interact with, I am like a tree in the woods with noone to hear. I am normal.
Remember… Your Universe was created by you. EVerything you experience as the moment of NOW races forward in time at the speed of light is either something you’re familiar with, and have learned the word to describe and comprehend, or it is something you don’t recognize, and you get to tell it’s story first.
Remember, in your universe, everything is perfect until the first share. With no interaction, you have no way to know if you are high. EVerything you think seems normal. You are not wrong. You are not crazy. You are not high.
The moment your universe is shared, and there are two or more witnesses, then your universe becomes judgeble. You suddenly see it from a perspective that does not exist when alone. Even if they make no comment, my imagination has created stories of their reactions. My universe has been introduced to the possability of imperfection. I might be wrong. I might be crazy. I might be a slay. I mean high. Oh yes, I’m certainly high. Oh crap./
This is anxiety I have learned. The time you spend in shared universe creates anxiety becauese you only fail when supervuised… or at least it only counts when there is a witness, because I choose not to remember the stories of my failures in my universe. I’m not counting, or I might have been a lot worse.
I suppose this means I do not exist unless I am interacting with another universe. There is no need to remember the stories of the NOW time I spend alone. There is no movement. No progress.
Unless I am interacting or in some other way reacting to the wants and needs of another, I do not move forward. I live in support, not progress. I react after the lightbulb burns out, not by replacing all of them every 4 months.
I have no boss, no direction, no goals. I am afraid of the edge of the flat earth. My universe was created with a fear as real as in The Trueman show… but if you smile and ask, I’ll jump off a cliff with you. Yes Mom… I said I would.
BAM. This happens. It is time for a body re-arrange. Literally a pause of less time than it takes for a good inhale, and my second voice comes alive. It’s as if he’d been waiting patiently for me to break focus long enough for him to take the microphone, metephorically.
I feel like this writing has improved since my early drig binge manic brain transcripts. I feel like these more recent journals come close to being respectable. Closer to the perfection I thought they were before I brought them through that interaction that exposes a new universe.
And then I write a sentence like that. Yuck. Of course these writings are not worthy. Of course it doesm’t matter because you’ve been writing for since at least age 17 and have never even thought to look at any. I have a gigantic chest of memories holding up the TV and a /writing folder on my computer I add to when I was writing before the blogs.
I have a few recent entries scattered among the various Orange and/or Frogstar domains.
Note the second voice doesn’t type these words. I interpret the negative wave that washes over the joy I felt just 45 seconds ago. The inner voioce that I can’t actually hear speak, but I know what it’s saying.
Believe whatever you want. Be confident… but it knows. It knows I’m not. I’m bluffing.
BUT BLFFING IS MY GTHING!
Not this time.
. That is a script of the kind of inner battle that goes on after the joy. After the idea. After the thought, or plan to priogress.
Nawwwww… Why start. I’ll fail. I can’t do it without a partner. I only exist under supervision.
I am a weeping Angel from the mirror universe, frozen when unseen, and interactive when preent in soembody else’s universe.
In fact, if I feel I’m not inconveincing anyone, I am perfeiorming. I am entertaining. I am trying to create a good story for all.
I am ignoring the bad. It’s easy. I can only hanfdle one great thought at a time, or two less great thoughts tops.
You may be able to hanfdlke 4 or 5. Some can handle 7. Geniuses can perhaps hot 9 or 10 thoughts they can juggle in local memory. I was going to cal it cognative disonence but when I asked my Google assitant she told me a different definition. I’ll refer to another anology. Enough peoplesaw or talked about a movie Rainman where the character was able to “know” how many toothpicks had falled. Not fast ount, but see as a number.
EVeryone has a number they can see without counting. How many toothpicks on the floor can you look atand see, but not count. 5 is a common minimum because our hands, but some can see up to 9 or more.
Likewise, if given verbal words to remember, for many people, it will be the same number.
For me, I have trouble with the third step. The third item on the list.
I’m sure its the drugs but I don’t reemnber any before… so it’s my NOW. If you give me directions, I will ptretend to listen, but anything more than 3 things to remember, and I’ll drop off the first.
It helped to increase my bluffing skills. Context learning. It’s a sign I recognize in my Grandfather and my father after him. The time after denial when you know, but don’t want anyone else to know you don’t remember your setence ending but you’ve deveoped the skill.
I do that on weed. I don’t have memories from doing it not.
It’s been quite a while since I wasn’t at least a littke high all the time.
cringe. My ruth hurts. I am closer to the street drug addict image than I let myself believe. I cling to the safe perfection of my universe, and try to save it from leaking, diluting and corupting me.
But that happend a long time ago.
I hide in my invisible orange shirts and toss that over the wall of tomorrow.
11:14. End of Part 2. There was video.
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