Blog 9/20/17
As I write this I must point our that I have a splitting headache. Excuses, excuses. So here goes: I am not a good writer, and I'm a fucking idiot, or I wouldn't be in jail. I write because I'm sad and angry, and alone in a concrete cell on the tenth floor of a building I've never seen the outside of. I will never do justice to the experienced I've had, the visions I've seen under the influence of drugs that could forever ruin anyone's conception of personal identity and coherent mode of reality, and I will never fully grasp or convey the dark places I've been in my short life, the pathetic, self-indulgent subhuman depths of alcoholism and drug addiction, and I'll never be able to properly document my tour of the country's gas stations, Walmart parking lots, and gutters, or it's forests. I was fucked up the whole time. And by the time I get out, I will be acclimated to being a prisoner. I will be broken. I already am. I'll never be able to describe the horror that my life has been, the whirlwind that has left me in this place of ruin and no matter how many people read this it won't ever able to do anything that could save me from the hell that it is to be me.
No philosophy or perspective I take can truly mitigate this. I eschew all those ruminations as banal repetitions of things anyone smart enough already knows, and anyone who doesn't comprehend is nore fortunate than myself. None of it can save me in the end from who I am, and where I am, weak and alone and penitent. In these walls, I'll die: who I am will die. Someone else will walk out, in some distant future.
So there. I have no new ideas. I'm unable to form even an organized piece. All I can do is record the futility of my situation, and the ways in which I suffer.
Most of the time, I don't think about any of this stuff. It is a defense mechanism. End this session.