The thing that most people need to know about me is that I'm psychic. Yes, 'psychic' is a broad term ranging from telekinesis, a talent which I do not possess, all the way to telepathy, with which I am indeed cursed, and even including 'the Gift of Prophesy,' yet another annoyance that I face in my day-to-day life.
Mind, the truth behind psychics has been vastly warped by the media and a general lack of understanding in society. No, I am incapable of directly influencing the actions of other people with my mind, though I am quite persuasive due to my ability to indirectly influence thought; yes, I do hear other peoples' thoughts, but it is chaotic and beyond comprehension unless I am quite attached to the person who I am attempting to hear; yes, physical contact heightens the connection, but no, I do not believe that it is so for every psychic. But I don't want to focus on my telepathy, nor do I want to explain the way in which it functions; I've explained it to the people who matter for the moment, and I shall only explain it further to anyone who I believed needs to know at my own discretion.
I'm 'gifted' with 'Prophesy.' Essentially, this means that I know the general flow of events as caused by the vast uncertainty of Cosmic actions; it means that I know the answer to the question before I know what the question is. But it also means that I know that I'm incapable of knowing the answer without knowing the question; it means that I as a consciousness understand the impossibility of my mind to comprehend the workings of the Cosmos on a scale where time is a negligible variable. It means that I'm in contradiction with myself, at least where time is concerned.
The 'gift of Prophesy' is a constant annoyance in my life. Imagine knowing that a person will die- and not only that they will die, since we all know that on some level, but rather when and how they will die... and being incapable of action, because the death is necessary. Imagine the tediousness of asking a question, the complex answer to which you already know. Imagine the anguish of acting as if you were something that you know you're not? In this sense, my entire life has been a sham. I have feigned interest in every person that I have ever met, because I have known that I would have an impact upon them and eventually spur them on to their destiny; I have pretended to love, hate, envy and be disinterested in people who I needed to love, hate, envy and be disinterested in.
People who think of these things must ask themselves 'Why?' And even I must ask myself, Why do I continue to enforce Fate? Can I deviate? If I deviate, will I know I have, or will it have been predetermined?
For as close as I innately am to Fate, I do not know the answer. Every moment of my life, I have kept my head down and watched where I was stepping, and for every step I've taken, I've met a road that was lain before I took the step. I cannot act to stop death, because death is final; I must ask the question because the answer must be spoken, be it for the speaker's own knowledge, the inhalation and exhalation of the breath or the ultimate destination of the voice; I must be what I have become as surely as I must keep my eyes, regardless of their faulty construction. I am as the waking dead, nothing more than a puppet to act upon the whims of the master and nothing more than dead weight upon the strings.
Why do I share this? Why do I have any intention to welcome anyone into my version of reality? For the same reason I do anything else. Those who believe in my words will find that they hold weight, and those who believe me senseless will find that I am. Regardless, the thought of it will impact their decisions in the future, spurring them on towards their goals, whatever they may or may not be and regardless of if they understand what they are.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Momentary, Transitory II
To some extent, my resolution for this year has already been met and exceeded, as proven by the utterance of the following phrase; "Even the greatest of us fall sometimes. But it is the greater still who rise again."
That's it. I'm not going to explain, and I'm not going to elaborate. Take it or leave it.
That's it. I'm not going to explain, and I'm not going to elaborate. Take it or leave it.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Letter to Nancy
I apologize for having taken so long to respond- I'll explain in a moment. Before I do, I would just like to let you know that if I'm not back in Massachusetts before the beginning of March, I intend to hitchhike my way back, so either way, I should be back by April.
In regards to the long response time... Well, as you might imagine now that I've passed the two year mark, I'm not feeling exceptionally human. I've been patently incapable of forcing myself to endure the outrageous climate of this place, and the fact that the limits of idiocy are constantly being tested by the general populace only serves as a hindrance when I attempt to make any contact with anyone through any means available to me. The longer that I'm here, the more absurd that it seems to me that anyone would assume that I'd been healthy enough for so cataclysmic a move, and the more that I begin to think that this entire ordeal will take me decades to adequately work out to the point where I'm capable of functioning on a 'normal' level once more.
It's hard for me to believe that it's been two years since I've been home, and almost as long since my last bit of meaningful human contact. It seems as if my profound loneliness has found a way to attach itself to the wall of my heart and evolve into some grotesquely pulsating tumor. Suffice to say, I'm not doing very well at all, and I would gladly make my home under a bush at this point just to be close to the people about whom I care- not that I don't care about my family mind you, but considering that my brother is rooting for me, my mother understands why I need to go and I haven't spoken with my father since he fractured my skull and I broke his jaw, I don't really see that type of 'love' as being very binding at the moment, nor do I exceptionally care about the existence of my mother's husband beyond his capacity to provide some vague sort of financial stability for my mother, because God knows that he doesn't provide emotional support or mental well-being.
I hope you're doing well though. It seems to me as if I'm enduring enough shit on a daily basis that the world should be in one of those rare periods of peace where some mad scientist cures cancer, a miscellaneous team of botanists discovers a cure for HIV/AIDs, and you can buy a soda for a nickle- and wouldn't you know that according to my sources, two out of three of them are actually happening? Now if only we had a working pesticide for those blood-sucking moths in India, we'd be golden.
-Charles
In regards to the long response time... Well, as you might imagine now that I've passed the two year mark, I'm not feeling exceptionally human. I've been patently incapable of forcing myself to endure the outrageous climate of this place, and the fact that the limits of idiocy are constantly being tested by the general populace only serves as a hindrance when I attempt to make any contact with anyone through any means available to me. The longer that I'm here, the more absurd that it seems to me that anyone would assume that I'd been healthy enough for so cataclysmic a move, and the more that I begin to think that this entire ordeal will take me decades to adequately work out to the point where I'm capable of functioning on a 'normal' level once more.
It's hard for me to believe that it's been two years since I've been home, and almost as long since my last bit of meaningful human contact. It seems as if my profound loneliness has found a way to attach itself to the wall of my heart and evolve into some grotesquely pulsating tumor. Suffice to say, I'm not doing very well at all, and I would gladly make my home under a bush at this point just to be close to the people about whom I care- not that I don't care about my family mind you, but considering that my brother is rooting for me, my mother understands why I need to go and I haven't spoken with my father since he fractured my skull and I broke his jaw, I don't really see that type of 'love' as being very binding at the moment, nor do I exceptionally care about the existence of my mother's husband beyond his capacity to provide some vague sort of financial stability for my mother, because God knows that he doesn't provide emotional support or mental well-being.
I hope you're doing well though. It seems to me as if I'm enduring enough shit on a daily basis that the world should be in one of those rare periods of peace where some mad scientist cures cancer, a miscellaneous team of botanists discovers a cure for HIV/AIDs, and you can buy a soda for a nickle- and wouldn't you know that according to my sources, two out of three of them are actually happening? Now if only we had a working pesticide for those blood-sucking moths in India, we'd be golden.
-Charles
Monday, February 2, 2009
Nil Value
I'm not much. I understand that, and to be honest, I even embrace it to some extent; if I'm not worth much, then how I can be disappointed when I don't get much? If I'm not useful, how can I criticize uselessness? If I'm nothing, how can I be anything but ecstatic at the prospect of something?
I've already alluded to what caused me to feel this worthless. I've a rather uncaring family full of rather insulting individuals, and I've spent my life as the penultimate display of schadenfreude- I've been the butt of jokes, the subject of ridicule, and object of disgust for so many people, I've forgotten what it's like to have a reason beyond self-depreciation.
So, I have to ask. And I know that no one actually reads this, so I don't expect an answer, but I still need to pose the question... Why am I here? What do I matter? And how is it that I constantly seem to find myself in the same situation? How is it that every time I put myself out there to look for something to give me a reason to continue on with this miserable, hum-drum life of mine, it seems as if the Cosmos is intent on proving to me that I'm even more useless and inconsequential than I feel?
I'm better for you than he is, whoever you and he are. I'm better because, no matter what, he's going to end up treating you like shit. It's unavoidable human nature; we take commonalities for granted, and I assure you that one day, and one day soon, he'll find you a commonality. But I won't, because I can't. I've resigned myself to living out the rest of my days alone, which is a horribly depressing thing for an eighteen year old to accept- but it means that I would bequeath you with whatever I could to keep you happy, it means that I would do anything to make you mine... but you don't seem to care, because I'm not him. I'm not anything that you think you need. I'm not anything at all.
I've already alluded to what caused me to feel this worthless. I've a rather uncaring family full of rather insulting individuals, and I've spent my life as the penultimate display of schadenfreude- I've been the butt of jokes, the subject of ridicule, and object of disgust for so many people, I've forgotten what it's like to have a reason beyond self-depreciation.
So, I have to ask. And I know that no one actually reads this, so I don't expect an answer, but I still need to pose the question... Why am I here? What do I matter? And how is it that I constantly seem to find myself in the same situation? How is it that every time I put myself out there to look for something to give me a reason to continue on with this miserable, hum-drum life of mine, it seems as if the Cosmos is intent on proving to me that I'm even more useless and inconsequential than I feel?
I'm better for you than he is, whoever you and he are. I'm better because, no matter what, he's going to end up treating you like shit. It's unavoidable human nature; we take commonalities for granted, and I assure you that one day, and one day soon, he'll find you a commonality. But I won't, because I can't. I've resigned myself to living out the rest of my days alone, which is a horribly depressing thing for an eighteen year old to accept- but it means that I would bequeath you with whatever I could to keep you happy, it means that I would do anything to make you mine... but you don't seem to care, because I'm not him. I'm not anything that you think you need. I'm not anything at all.
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