entry 2: Ghost Tears

Imagine if you will a dark room painted with light and shadow. Objects stand in various positions casting different images, but something is wrong. Shouldn’t the light cast the shadows? No, instead in this case, the Shadows are casting light. The objects, enveloped in the deep black have somehow determined to paint it with some sort of luminescence. But this imaginary construct does not exist, in fact, beyond being impossible, it is metaphorically maddening. Yet, this is the image of myself , of the tears , that fade into black , because they are themselves black , they are the blood of the world that exists in everyone’s mind , they are the moments lost between sentences , they are… the Ghost tears.

Quite simply put, I mean to say that every man’s perception of the world is a projection upon it, he interprets the world and twists it to meet his own “flavor” of understanding. We find reference points by which to understand the world, and so long as those reference points exist in the real world, we are considered “sane” or normal. People with the ability to extrapolate imaginary reference points and view the world from (as of yet) non-existent standpoints walk the fine line between genius and insanity. They exist between the light and shadows in the room. They do not even appear. They are ghosts. Quite simply, the insane are defined as the more stubborn of the spectrum of these ghosts, they manage to base their entire existence off of a theoretical construct that they built, sometimes even in spite of the blatant knowledge that the world they constructed is entirely nonsensical, immoral, or wrong. These constructs however are important, I believe, in the understanding of my own grief. You see, I don’t fit in anywhere. I see connections that others don’t, not genius connections, but oddities. I am not by any means a genius, in fact, it may not even be correct to call me smart. I have no idea if I have entirely lost my mind or if I am just very distanced from the rest of society , but I find myself very lonely for the exact reason that I can be almost entirely certain that no-one (human at least) sees the world that I see. I long to show someone the beauty (or perhaps the filth or even the overwhelming sensation) of a world that can only be viewed from my temporary theoretical constructs. You see, I view the world almost through an imaginary overlay that can convert information that I see into an entirely different system of thoughts and images, and fit them together in different ways. As a result I can find, in a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and construct that represents the union of a man and woman into the fruitful production of a masterful craftsman, as opposed to mere sustenance.

My trouble comes from the fact that I also feel pain from this imaginary construct I use to understand life. It enhances the lightest of shadows into the deepest of nightmares, turning the black in the room I described, into a pool of pallid madness that I swim in every day. Ironically, swimming is my favorite sport, so I suppose you could say I feel right at home in this depressing river. Consider my spats such as these, times when I get water in my nose and have to stop to choke a little bit. It’s a bit harder to get rid of because the liquid is as thick as tar, but it works at least for a time. I reference myself as a mere shadow , because these are moments when the distinction between myself and the things I hate about myself( at times almost everything) is very thin.

The Ghost TEARS are something created in this rift between the light and the dark , they are an outcry to be heard , for someone to verbally and tactically recognize a deeper struggle beyond a superficial one , but are drowned out in a personal perception. Painfully I have realized that, though I speak rather exquisite English, it is as if I speak a different language most places I go. I cannot be myself entirely if I want to reach someone, in fact, I must mimic them in some ways. It is as if, I am not even real, as if I am merely a construct of everyone else’s imagination… a machine… a shadow. My ghost tears are the result of my struggle to feel real. In some ways, the reason I want to be an inventor comes less from my desire to help people, and more from my intense hatred of being ignored by large crowds of people who pretend to want to know me deeply. I want to cry, scream, and bang my head until it bleeds. I want the world to see JUST HOW INSANE I CAN BE…. To hear the dichotomy between the words I say, and the millions that play in the back of my head as I try to focus. I want them to know and RESPECT my internal struggle. Something that frustrates me to the point of suicidal contemplation, is the superficiality of the world around me. The fact that mankind seems to have forgotten how to feel, and moreover how I have become numb as well. I hate myself because I cannot feel the way I used to be able to feel. It has become a part of my theoretical construct of life (feeling that is). I sometimes hate the world because it refuses to feel for me , and then subsequently hate myself more , because I hate being so hateful( I really care , but no one can tell , nor can they reciprocate ((CAN THEY!?!)). If men can reciprocate, why won’t they?! If I have the ability to feel, why don’t I?! If the people who claim to love me really do, why do they ignore me unless I imitate them?! These conundrums truly inspire my self-loathing. As I have said before, I have already been saved from this, but this struggle is ongoing. I cannot claim to be in immediate danger of death, nor can I claim to know if I really believe I have overcome the desire to destroy the abomination I am. Villain or hero? Alone or together? Broken or fixed? Sane or mad? Who can say? Just about all I have left in the tattered remains of my heart and mind are my core beliefs in God and of the world , my dedication to my ambition and my work , and my admonition “ never give up” … That was left to me by myself years ago… I fear that me …… is DEAD. And so my Ghost tears flow , I mourn my own death as I still live and I move on memoriam of the things that I stand for now , what I stood for then , and what I am going to stand for in the future….