Weird, weird, weird, crazy, strange, beautiful, scary life. I feel at once claustrophobic and like the world is massive. My honey bun is corrupt and lost, and yet also centred and wise.
Everybody has a perspective, every man and woman, and none of us see clearly, we are all shaped by our experiences, our pasts, the paths that our brains run neurologically each time we awaken. We cannot help this; I feel scared by my acknowledgement of this reality. I can't trust anybody, not even myself. Not the police, the authority, the council. Not the public, not the individual, nor the community. Everyone is clouded in some way and shaped by perspective, it is not a crime, nor a bad thing; it is essential for the flow and interaction of the universe. But it is scary.

In 2024, the police broke into my home and assaulted me violently. There is evidence that they damaged my spine significantly. Now I have the opportunity to take them to court over it. This is the world of man, the law system, and I am not adept at navigating it. In my natural world, is the laws of karma and revenge, not the laws of criminal justice via a mallet and adjudicator. I trust nothing made by man alone, for it has competition and vitriol seemingly imbedded, but it is an option for me and in my heart, I feel justice should be served. I feel the warrior cry of justice in my heart toward these violent attackers who never came to any compensation. 

I feel like I'm sinking deeper into something; I dunno if it's truth/freedom or lies/deception, or maybe that's exactly the crux of reality itself — it is my choice now to choose. I hear all sorts of perspectives. 

Here's one: medical, law-abiding, government-trusting. 
Another: Adventurous, radicalized, anti-institution. 

I hear from those young and those old, those wise here but stupid there, those with perfect clarity of vision but walls up against certain truths. At some point you HAVE to put walls up in some direction, otherwise your brain would expand to the size of the Universe and explode. 

People with great smarts but they are navigating on a mechanical system, so they miss the spirits.

People with incredible clarity, but they have morals embedded subconsciously which shrink their opportunities.

People who want true justice, but want it only via bloodshed.

People who possess skills beyond the ordinary, but they are too traumatized to speak aloud.

It's like I have seen too much now to form opinions of my own, systems of my own. I recognize that for every belief, there is another just as valid in the opposite direction. Every contester has an opposition. I suppose I am drawn to strong forces because they give me a sense of motion, and direction. But I recognize now that no force is without an equal opposite. So what's the point of anything? It's all just spinning around in circles. We are.

(Maybe when you realize that, is when you start to let yourself get pulled in toward the centre of gravity, which maybe feels like motion, like rising, like improving, but it is just natural and it is aiding no one but the amen centre of mass)

Even the art I create now is hesitational thanks to my mind: I could use pink, or green, or blue. What shade of blue? I could play A — that would colour it brightly, I could play A minor — a little bluer, a little darker. Sounds different, not better or worse. Nothing, nothing is ever better or worse. More fitting, whatever. More fitting to whom? For what?

I go spinning out again...

Be brought to ground by the infinite flicking wrist of sensations: the cold shower, the crisp wind, the crinkling chirpy birds, the battle roar of a sports car along the highway, the fuss and clutter of my partner scrubbing, fixing, tinkering, swooshing, shuffling, chatting, singing, dancing, observing, noticing. The sounds created by existence alone. By his consciousness alone, he produces. He is perfect. I love him.

But and I have told him again and again, I am damaged deeply, possibly forever, possibly terminally. I have told him, and he prays for me and affirms my worth. And the church people come around the carpark and hand us food and put their hands on my shoulder and pray for me, they look to the skies and seek for my healing. No one can turn off the flowing tap of glacial darkness that flows inside of me, the deepest, darkest, murkiest swirling blackness which has filled up my insides and choked my lungs. Tar, ice, sediment, trauma, memories. Swirling fragments of a life here and there.

I have changed form from one mass into an ocean. Comprised of infinity. But useless at holding form, I dissolve because I do not care, I am ready to disperse.

I play guitar and sing with the hearts of lions. I walk on cold, white sand. I sleep free, in the parks, at the beaches, you can't tell me to move on. Tell a lake to leave. I breathe eucalyptus. I feel affection, longing, distrust, confusion, acceptance, absence, panic, fear, and that blackness-no-name-void which I stare into when I think about my mother. I see the hover craft of birds, the elegance of rays in the shiny turquoise water. Homes, violence, anger, leaf litter, toilets, taps, men with wrinkled faces, women with bitterness in eyes. Things working, slowly, smally, and some giant swirling energy field over it all, the perfect unison and yet constant dissolution battling for contamination of my mind. What do I see? Do I live in peace, bliss, acceptqnce? Or fighting, unpacking, navigating? I am like a sailor on the fucking wild seas of this mind. One day I will be eaten alive by a storm, or I will enter nirvana ? I dunno.

Highways, heat. People are angry and aggressive, fighting for capital they don't even want, or need, people are calm like a knife - crystal cut silence but just awaiting for something to slice through. White knuckles, holding onto sanity, or perhaps, like me, they have let go of it entirely, and are drifting.
Speaking of which - Drifting by Jimi Hendrix.

I went on a tangent the other day listening to old and new music of the 27 club - Winehouse, Joplin, Cobain, Hendrix, Morrison... The way their words tumble out at the end has a unique affect, a shared kind of senselessness, a carelessness. The words themselves feel lighter, the rhythms easier, so easy and natural they are just invisible- the way that the intricacies of trees vanish when your eyes glaze over the whole forest. These perfect melodies, songs, by geniuses mastercrafts at their art, they disappear towards the end because they are so perfect they have balanced every single thing. And so become No-Thing.

Or something like that.... I need to pee...

Things are simmering...