Blog Entry: Explosion

Explosion Please feel free to comment!

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It is peculiar how one is so often struck with the desire to put pen to paper without knowing exactly what it is one will write. Whilst these moments are for me all too common, it doesn’t worry me – rather, it intrigues and encourages me to think that my subconscious is never idle and that it does communicate with my consciousness in some way, albeit infrequently.

I have changed so much over the past few months, indeed, over the past year, and I worry that there is nothing left of me. It is a peculiar feeling, yet one not peculiar to me alone I think. I have changed so much. My outlook on life is far more sceptical. I am, by necessity, impartial and emotionally detached. I weave intricate webs of deceit for simple convenience, and have smothered my conscience under an instinct for self-preservation.

I have believed at times that the true me is in a box somewhere in my head, having retreated there in light of the recent relative turmoil in my life. Now I am not so sure. I think that perhaps, in reality, the true Douglas has only recently been freed from his shackles. Perhaps neither of these two is right – perhaps it is much simpler than that – I simply am who I am here and now, there are no boxes. If that is so then I must be many people for there is the “I� who lives at home, there is the “I� who is promiscuous, there is the “I� who has a boyfriend, there is the “I� who cleans obsessively, and there is the “I� who I am at school. We are all composite in nature, and that is of course sensible – surely however there should not be this many faces to the kaleidoscope that has become me?

It is a fascinating thing, to think about death. When I was a young boy, I thought of death as going to heaven and meeting mummy and daddy and auntie and grandma and everyone who had been good and who was special in my life. When I was a little older, I thought of it as rather like going to eternal church. Now, I do not believe anything strongly enough to think it in that same way – rather, I read what others have said. Not only narrow-minded, sheltered, occidental Christian Fundamentalism – it does not make sense to me. Rather, I am of two minds. Perhaps we are composite bodies, and we are composed of more than this physical form and indeed do have a soul. If this is so however, then I would subscribe to the theories of Agrippa and the like (although not as Christian). I can believe what my senses tell me – whether this is wise or not could be debated for an age, however it is the case. This being so, if I were to develop a sense which was able to help me make more direct contact with my soul and the ‘plane’, if you will, of existence that it inhabits, then life would make more sense – what better way to prove a superior existence than to explore it oneself, and to bring oneself closer to unity with it?

The cynic inside me however cries out in protest. What if my interest in all this concerning the Astral and such-like is simply my mind trying to fill the void that was once filled with an all-powerful Christianity, which would have destroyed me from the inside out. It was an essential part of my being, but as the body rejects donor organs sometimes, so too was this religion – not being a part of me – rejected, most violently, by me. I cannot simply accept Christianity without considering what the other possibilities may be. It is much easier simply to accept Christianity, living here. This ease is my chief concern.

Again, my mind wanders – do I have a subconscious desire, arising from my sexuality, to be antagonistic? Do I get a thrill from being reactionary? I am not sure – I simply find it frightfully tiring.

The reason I allow my mind to wander in such a decadent fashion, intellectualising and hypothesising, is simply because I cannot allow myself to think about actuality, about reality.

Reality, for me, is something with which I have to be very selective in my current state of mind. I shall briefly indulge it here. My mother is deeply upset by my sexuality. She does not love me, and believes I am going to Hell, and believes I do not love her – indeed I do. My parents would prefer me to be straight. They are ashamed of me, and ashamed for me – mother, at least. However, I cannot let myself love her because then the hold she has over me becomes disproportionally large, and perhaps yes I am going to Hell. I probably deserve it anyway. In Christian terms, I am capable of being cruel, heartless, arrogant, selfish and hurtful. There are many places in the world I will never be able to go, being gay. It is a shame that one of these places may one day be my own mother’s house. Every day, I know that, were I to die, I would be happier. There are other people who would be happier also. I shall not die however, I will just keep going and see what happens – there is yet an optimist in here, and he remembers that when one is down, one can but simply go up.

It is strange walking down the street with someone you care for, not even daring to hold their hand for fear that you may be beaten or mugged as a result of this simple display of affection. It is not pleasant.

I sometimes worry that I simply make too big a fuss about everything and should let things take their course. However, that is not in my nature. I try to work things out, and then I can rearrange them for the sake of improvement.

I am a stuck record, life is so monotonous here.

It is strange how something seemingly so small, is really frightfully large.

I do obsess over my mother! And when did I become so haughty?

...please be nice!