Kinda feels like it’s raining inside me today.

Nothing harsh or torrential. No lightning, no volcanoes, no hurricanes.

Just a soft and steady downpour that slowly soaks everything in cool, clean, clear rain that washes all the toxins and torments away.

Then again it’s always raining.

What I probably need is a good cry. But like most North American males, crying is not easy for me no matter how many times I tell myself that it’s a good idea to do so.

Use it or lose it, I guess. Suppress the urge to cry hard enough and those faucets rust shut and can’t easily be opened again.

I can’t even seek out something that might make me cry and get relief that way.

Because idiot hedonism won’t stop insisting that crying feels bad and therefore it makes no sense to make yourself cry on purpose.

And yeah, crying feels bad. But it makes me feel better. It’s totally worth it.

Yet I remain locked deeply in the bowels of my emotional constipation, hoping some unbidden event comes along to set my poor tears free.

It’s happened before. I think there is some deep part of me that still has the ability to act against the tyranny of my cult of reason and self-control and get some of these vitally important emotional tasks done via subconscious shenanigans.

So the wall that holds back my tears gets thinner and thinner without ever actually letting them out until something comes along – usually something I watch – and gives the wall a little poke, and the floodgates are thrown open for a time.

And I end up feeling so much better afterwards. Almost human, even.

And yet the moment the storm has passed the walls go up again. Sigh.

Part of the problem is that when emotional suppression is built so deep into after many years of it you are packed to the gills with unexpressed feelings, they necessarily have become a large part of what it is your head. Therefore to let them out means a huge shift in the contents of your skull and your mind not incorrectly interprets that as a threat to its stability and shuts things right down again

To release them all in a near-Biblical level Flood, like I long to do, would be to throw the mind into utter chaos and destruction and my mind is structured around remaining stable no matter what.

More’s the pity. There are far worse things than chaos. In fact, some things are worth going a little bit cuckoo for cocoa puffs over.

But that prospect scares the chocolatey goodness out of me. I have absolutely no faith that if I went crazy, I would ever make it back to sanity again.

Or if I did, I would wake up in a secure psychiatric facility in a prison in multiple forms of restraint, and some nervous junior nurse would have to come in and tell the big scary hairy man what he has been up to while he was “out”.

Might be worth it, though, if I was sane and stable afterwards.

More after the break.

Blood and fire

I have a wild and passionate heart that is completely out of place in a cautious and sensible type like myself.

For example, ever since I was a little kid, I have gotten these urges to just wander off into the great wide world and find whatever there is to find out there.

I’ve never done it, of course. That would be crazy. Why abandon comfort and security for some wild and unpredictable future? It doesn’t make any sense!

Well I am increasingly aware that doing things that don’t make any conventional kind of sense because something deep inside you is urging you to do it is actually an important part of growing up and my refusal to follow those nonsensible urges called “instincts” is a very big part of why I haven’t.

Grown up, that is.

It’s that soul-destroying and pitiless self-control again – an idol for which I have sacrificed nearly everything good and pure and healthy in me just so that I could have a very false and destructive sense of control over myself.

Well it’s not fucking worth it.

Oh, but it makes life more predictable so I don’t have to deal with the unknown!

Yeah, that’s the thing about barren wastelands devoid of all life : they are very predictable. No messy and unpredictable living things doing Hell knows what to your nice clean lunar landscape.

The sad thing is, that really does appeal to the diseased part of me. I have had a number of dreams in the distant past where I was on the surface of a completely lifeless planet with nothing but huge boulders and caves and depressions in the ground all around me, and a fine ash falling continuously from the sky.

And for some insane reason, this made me deliriously happy

Come to think of it, it was the same kind of ecstasy I felt one night when I was walking the streets of my hometown at 3 am.

It’s this exultant feeling of freedom. Like all this time, it’s the biopressure of my fellow human beings (and my fear of them) that has been keeping me all balled up and cramped within myself, and when that was gone, by soul could breathe free.

That has got to be what the outdoorsy types get high on : that feeling of having no other humans in your mental presence.

Now I can’t very well become that kind of person this late in life. Ship sailed on that when my legs went boom.

But it’s definitely something I have to think about. There must be some way of creating that blessed mental silence for myself.

Maybe meditation could do it?

I’ll figure something out. I always do.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

I