A far too familiar noun in my dreams is the wood chipper. Being run through it, running others through it; these dreams are those that I am less thrilled to have (not that I have many pleasant dreams). Several times a month, it comes back to haunt me with its familiar one-note song and bloody imagery. I don’t exactly know what it symbolizes, but I suspect that ‘total destruction’ is on top of the list of possible interpretations. As always, I walk a fine line between ruining myself, ruining others, and assimilating as the gentle, good-natured, gentrified psychopath that I am supposed to be on this earth. The forces are always at an uneasy truth and I have my bumps, but ultimately I’ve done a pretty good job at staying out of jail and in the good graces of society.
However, I bring this up because a haunting realization has come upon me as of late. I used to write to champion those like me; those ASPD and/or psychopathic individuals that somehow make life work. Over the years, however, I have come to realize that I am nearly alone on this front. Who then am I actually talking to? Why do I continue? I’m not saying I’m going anywhere, but the blood, sweat, and tears that I put in seem forced the longer I remain as ‘pg’.
Why do I keep writing when I have seen – time and time again – my audience engage in auto-erotic suicide? It seems that we are a demographic that exists solely to destroy ourselves and – time and time again – we are damn good at what we do. I won’t lie and the long time-reader surely knows that I have my own challenges on this front. I am constantly flirting with the metaphorical grave. Hell, soon I will have to put on my best clothes and perform yet another death-defying escape: a set of actions that prove irritating, tiring, and that will eventually fail me. If I am merely lucky – which I cannot rule out – with my escape acts and parlor tricks, then why on earth would I surround myself with the antics of a demographic that is less talented or more unwilling to perform on this front? I don’t need to follow the vultures; I know where the carrion is. I also know that I don’t need to accelerate my trajectory toward those crows that will one day devour my eyes.
So why do I keep going? Momentum certainly plays a role here. I’ve been ‘pg’ for almost 2 1/2 years now. I suppose it is a hobby and a facsimile of genuine human interaction – something that I crave but cannot have. I still know that there is someone I am talking to and a conversation that is being had, however. I no longer know their face or their psychological profile, but on some level I am still playing verbal ping-pong. I am not altruistic and I am not an optimist. Whatever self-serving reasons still exist, I suppose are good enough. I don’t want the commentary on this post to shower me with praise or reinforce support that I do not need. I am merely working through my own thought processes in the only way how … which brings us back to the wood chipper.
Those that I surround myself with are destined to become mulch. They willingly and forcefully insert themselves into the wood chipper in front of them, just as the unknown entities throw me in for my sins. Maybe we aren’t so different on this front. We are all chasing death and failure, and we do so as willing participants. All the restraint in the world will only prolong my life and freedom, but I suppose I can plant flowers in the mulch of those that have come with me and failed. Follow the vultures and see the wonderful and macabre scene that we are all participant to. One day it’ll be my eyes, but for now, these eyes see the eyes of others, comfortably resting in the beaks of crows.
I have had similar, recurring dreams (though not as frequently) of a person in church allowing themselves to be killed without protest, most commonly by crucifixion as some twisted re-creation of Jesus’ death. The congregation are always as indifferent to this as the person themselves, and I am left feeling sick in my inability to change anything; the death is legal in the context of the dream, and the victim is willing. I believe my reluctance to speak up in social situations is also at play here.
I should mention that I am not religious myself, but I grew up as the daughter of a vicar, and the church was inevitably a big part of my life. For a time I believed I had faith, but the realisation of my atheism was traumatic, and led to a severe death phobia as well as a regrettably negative attitude towards Christianity, subconscious or not, for a while. (I include all this in the hopes it is of interest).
This dream always disturbed me, long after I had awoken. Maybe it’s symbolic of a similar distruction that you speak of, at least partially, or maybe it is reflective of my alienation from the church, my confusion surrounding religion in general. Suicide is an all too common theme in my dreams, gore and all, and I can’t help but agree with the points you describe regarding the loss of those around us. I see death in everyone I interact with, and I often get too tangled in its inevitability and presence to see life’s worth. All I can say to all this is that there are days when I can put these thoughts aside, if only briefly, and everything becomes okay, with my knowledge of my own phobias distant and untroubling. I both hope and don’t to see more of this happiness, one allowed by a fleeting refusal to dwell.
Perhaps this is relevant to you, perhaps not, but I wish you well, and hope that you continue to find meaning in your work.
While the idea of a death phobia is interesting and perhaps even slightly amusing to me, I don’t wake from my dreams involving bloody and violent deaths (far more violent than a wood chipper or martyrdom) in a state of fear or anything like that. If anything, I wake up from these dreams feeling very calm and relaxed.
What is the point of any “thing” but that it simply exists? Even if we as a species were to develop a granular explanation for every particle in the observable universe, and an utterly perfect map for explaining the function of our brains – one and all – we would still each need to create a personal narrative to endow the data points with significance.
Yes, we are atrocious beings capable of things others wouldn’t imagine, and we must check ourselves at every turn or be among the throngs of shackled, pathetic carnival freaks. But even if I could spend a decade engaged in unchecked hedonistic fury, I am certain this would also grow into a boring, recalcitrant cycle of the quotidienne. This may sound silly, but a fine example is the storyline of the “Llamas With Hats” series of internet cartoons.
Even with absolute liberty, the flames of your own personal apocalypse would still consume you eventually. So the only question that really remains is how to make it one moment to the next, diverted sufficiently, and without pissing off the law. That is the only concern that I entertain at the deepest level – how to keep the atrociousness of boredom at bay at the lowest cost of “social currency.”
I have the rumblies that only hands will satisfy. Also the kind satisfied only be ruthless destruction on the internet.
as much as I hated to see my friend implode and it did give me some motivation to write
Another Saturday, another careless move
Tell the world that you’re thinking of what to do
A window opens up and some one calls your name
But I can tell you don’t know how to play this game
I know this isn’t it
You’ll hit your target some day
So now your on your own
Won’t you come back home
To see you’re not that kind
And find the strength
To find the strength
To find another way
To find another way
So tell me what you need
And I’ll accommodate
But if too long goes by
You just might be too late
An opportunity you can’t afford to waste
So have the lines in your head first
For heaven’s sake
You hear the day beckoning
Know what its all in your head
So now your on your own
Won’t you come back home
To see you’re not that kind
And find the strength
To find the strength
To find another way
You’re a fantastic writer when it comes down to metaphor and the flow of your statements. In no way do I feel lost when reading you, and it’s easy to comprehend your perspective. You’re a talented wordsmith! Silvertongue..