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.