Crackpot Monkey


Status report. New Year. First words. Like freshly fallen snow. Soaked in blood. Dramatic climax. Ruined life, ruined love,  ruined family. Everything turns to shit and I’m just standing there, apathetic. Letting it happen. I’m blogging again regularly. Mostly old stuff. I’m frustrated because the blog I’m writing with other authors has morphed into a platform tuning into the eternal mantra that climate change is not going to be so bad. Let’s confidently ignore the majority of relevant scientists. Let us ignore statistics and risk calculations. Let us ignore Black Swans. I’m probably just frustrated because I spent hours researching and writing two articles in the last few months which were rejected without comment. Fuck it. At least I still have my blog. But unfortunately, with much less coverage. For now. But maybe that will change. Eventually. My life is passing by and there’s nothing I can do about it. Probably not quite true, because there’s always something you can do. At least that’s the credo of our hipfuckinghurray liberal society.

You are the architect of your own happiness. You just have to do it. If you don’t make it, you’re a failure and you need to be treated for it. Brainfuck. Literally. What do you do when your head fucks your life every day? When it presents you with all the nice catalogue options and then stands in front of you, with arms folded making you realize, it’ s not gonna work like that. Different rules apply here. You want to get somewhere? You want to be ambitious? Planning? Have a normal fucking life? HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Fuck off! Over and over and over and over again! This is not your fucking decision! You’re just a puppet here. A tiny puppet on a giant game board called life where you don’t even know the rules. Brainfuck. Again, and again and again and again. Self-efficacy my ass. So, everything my hands grasp must perish in misery. Loosely based on Faust. How poetic. Do you hear me? A fucking poet. Another one. This is what the world has been waiting for. I’ve been vegetating for weeks, interrupted only by some workout excesses. Can’t see, can’t know, can’t think, don’t know where to go. I run and run and run and run in circles. I want to scream every day, release my hatred for the whole world out there, knowing that in the end nobody is to blame for anything. Does that make it better? Makes it easier? Simpler? Of course not. Hipfuckinghurray. Quite the opposite, in fact. Head against the wall. Again, and again and again. I want to hurt myself. Every day a little bit more. I want to take the knife in my hand and cut a little deeper every day. I want to feel something again, except despair, self-hatred and yearning for Taira. The few good things from last year. Probably the best. Oh, the fucking irony. I see a pattern emerge. The same story over and over for years. Fantastic people, but unreachable. So close and yet so far. Maya, Eve, Liz, Charly and now her. History repeats itself. At least my one. How can I expect understanding if I don’t even understand myself? I’m a hobo from a broken home. Granted, I’m not a hobo. Yet. Fuck.

I can’t keep fucking other people over with all this shit. It happens every time and it’s just incredibly fucked up. I’m managing on my own. Maybe with a few more scars. Who did that knife ever hurt? Rhetorical question. Obviously. Fuck. I’d like to scream out loud into the night. But I can’t. Of course not. After all, I’m a well-mannered man who lets his fellow humans sleep peacefully instead of indulging them in the chaos in my head. I still see frequent access statistics from Ireland and France. It seems both Annabelle and Valerie are still interested in my thoughts. Despite all these fucked up stories. Someone understand this world. Or people. I will not. Maybe a little. I don’t even know what I would say to them if we ever spoke again. I would probably feel like apologizing to Annabelle a hundred times for how shitty I treated her. With Val, I don’t really care about talking. I doubt she’s past her extreme narcissism. My social status is way down, yours is way up. Sorry, I’m still not in the mood for you. Toxic people are exhausting. I’m well aware. After all, I have been one myself. Been? I wish. The hate, the anger, the cynicism – none of it fades. It’s all still as strong in me as it ever was. Only the chains I put on this monster have grown stronger. But I’m always afraid they might burst again one day. Every time negative emotions flood through me, I feel the overwhelming power of this wild creature inside me. It writhes in its chains, roars with deafening volume, at which I am only glad it is only happening in my head. So far. I don’t know what it is, but I know that this base instinct has always been a part of me. At school I wrote a homework with non-fiction passages and my own short stories about killing sprees. Top marks. No one realized I was the one who regularly thought about putting a bloody end to everything. No worried conversations, no inquiries. Everything was normal. Business as usual. No one realizes what’s going on in others unless you let them see it. Do I ever want to lose control? No. It’d be a nice answer. I don’t know. The honest answer. I can already hear the sirens wailing outside my apartment if I ever put those lines on my blog. It’s just a precaution to make sure I don’t do anything stupid. You never know. These are dangerous times we live in.

Fuck. I’ve been writing an awful lot today for some reason. Probably also some compensation for the fact that I was relatively inactive for so many months and didn’t regularly confront my thoughts. I have avoided an incredible amount. Instead, I preferred just consuming. Distracted me from all the fuckup which only exists in my head and yet is, at the same time, incredibly real for me. The darkness will always be a part of me. I will probably never be able to escape it completely, but only put on stronger and stronger shackles. Does that make me a hypocrite? I don’t know. I try to make up for a lot of past wrongs. I don’t know how many times I’ve gone against my instincts these past months. The first impulse I feel is an appropriate response to a perceived situation. In most cases this would have been quite hurtful to my counterpart. But I don’t give a fuck. I simply do not feel it. With a few exceptions. I am polite because fucking society wants me to. Therefore, I abide to its rules. Hoofuckingray. Who’s the bigger hypocrite? Me, who only pretends being polite, well-meaning, tolerant and nice or the one who gives a damn about such trifles and just follows through with his act? But which is better? For me? The society? Very probably these are two very different answers. Dissonance. There it is again. But occasionally, I’m actually genuinely nice. Then I feel it too. Around a rough handful of people. The rest can go to hell for all I care.

Polarity. There it is again. What a surprise. It is already difficult for most people to extend their empathy beyond a narrow circle, so how can I hope that I, of all people, will succeed? Someone whose empathic competence is on a par with a menhir. Or am I exaggerating a little? I don’t know. I’m calculating, not necessarily empathic. There’s a significant difference, I think. It’s a crazy world I found myself in right now. I have no idea if I’ll ever find my way out of it. If not, so be it. It was nice knowing you. Or not. Bye.

Ha. Once again, expectations were betrayed. I’m so imaginative, I know. Thank you. Don’t mention it. I’m an approval junkie. I’m a crackpot monkey. Anyone can have bananas. I want applause, applause.

You are a decent human being. Behave accordingly.

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