Afflicted by Exhilaration from Hyper-Intelligence, Reckless Self-Abandon, & Hyperbole

There is this feeling so god-damned lily-gildingly beautiful, so treacherously & infatuatingly magnetic, so staggeringly dark yet brilliant, that I fear [know] I will go insane, once & for all, if I continue to fail at expressing it [read: smother it with verbal/emotional/behavioural incompetence]. & There is a sort of event horizon surrounding the various hypothetical futures I entertain... beyond which there is no reality, no possibility--an inevitable event horizon stemming from the point at which the suicide factor falls into gridlock with the endurance/"will to expression" factor. When my capacity has been exceeded. Ergo, time is running out. & Of course, I refuse to be suicidal.


The confusion, I think, arises not solely from the notoriously ineffective translation process called articulation, but also from my internal schism. When experiencing the soul-slamming high of absolute reckless self-abandon & of glistening vulnerable narcissism, I am so totally enveloped, I do not recognize the magnitude of what is. Of course writing this is problematic [being that I am trying to relive it]. Only when I extract myself from the residual emotional strands & I retrospect does the true [read: glamourized] meaning dawn on me.

The thing that I need is an acutely perceptive external point of reference, or, in laymen's terms, someone who understands me fully [which by default generally coincides with a lover, with the lover]. & Which I have.


The lightest part of it, the shining gold narcissism, is so light & joyful, it feels like nothing; as insubstantial & necessary as air. Invisible because blindingly bright. & When recognized, when the true blazing nature of it is recognized, the repercussions are cataclysmic: love. Unbearably light.

Now, if you can imagine a shifting golden-brown that has streaks so dark, they resemble black more than brown--that is the dark part of it. A messianic tragedy of the heart, often self-destructive, & downright destructive, to the point that self-loathing starts to seep in from the periphery. Black humiliation that fuels the darkness further. Only abated by the slaphappy golden waves of cathartic lightness.

The perhaps more troubling aspect of this emotion is that it is in fact one (1) emotion. A glittering happiness that breathes in the pain, a troubled joy that sings the darkness. & It is my imperative [albeit chosen] Modus Operandi when facing the worst perils, the head-reeling drunken sorrows, & the bliss [always the bliss].


Now, to escape that horizon.

excerpt from Journal Account of the Apocalypse

Sometimes I find the surging notions of destructive beauty overcome me, notions I can only express in bittersweet pangs of art, music. Somewhere inside the psychotic shell, I wonder if the tormented artist can find meaning then perhaps humanity can be redeemed. So, in desperation I take refuge in ugly(?) images like the rosebuds on a crown of thorns, bleeding in the womb, a god who in the darkness of omnipotence thrusts upon us terrestrial tribulation. I hope that somehow I can convey the beauty of these notions. And then, there's the one I'm in love with the most, every time: Armageddon. It is the Ultimate Battle, because even in triumph, the world ends, we end, you end. The storms of blustering wind, the raging hearts of love and chagrin, and empty seeds of mustard that once held faith… dissipate. Every mortal fights in vain. Just the difference is some wildly embrace the joy of infamous kingdom come, unbearable amounts of terror rife in their hearts; but a sense of resigned glee of being at the mercy of the cosmos ensnares their free will yet. And some go on resisting, calling the blinding light darkness, and ultimately I don’t know which is which.

megalomania is sexy

I said, “I feel invincible. Do you?” He said yeah.
Absolute megalomania looks good on him.
Usually the joy is impenetrable, dangerously slaphappy and naïve, and completely erroneous. But such is the paradox of everything I encounter—as soon as I assert its definiteness, a jolt of knowing opposition erupts. Troubling, really.

I suppose it’s just some youthful high—and it’s strong as fuck, cause it’s lasted for twenty-three years and still going strong. Giddy with life, in denial about unconcerned with unwilling [?] to process death. Rationally, yes, of course I’m going to die. I’ve been told. But basically, aside from those morbidly obsessed poets and cancer patients and the odd wise-beyond-your-years prodigy, youth are invincible against not feeling invincible.
Ergo, delusional fools. But resilient-ass motherfuckers.

And then it crumbled, for a moment. I don’t think for me. I think it was for him. A horrible, bittersweet rush came over me, a grave [forgive the pun] hush and stab. I still want to scream. Because suddenly I could hear all the weakness and vulnerability welling up in him, in contrast to his words of might. Although a moment later, the unreasonable joy was brimming in me making me almost cry; felt like sadness, a vice grip in my chest and uncontrollable buckling of my knees, but somehow it was the reverse and happy. I think… either way, its going to go down. Down, down, down.

Throughout my turbulent, risen-hell, fucked up childhood, I was invincible. Against repeated, methodical, almost mechanical near death experiences; in fact, furthered by triumph over these experiences. I retreated into the mind, with the profound and awesome for my comfort. Death-defiance because the cosmos were on my side. Then daydream and wonder made way for sex drive, though pain still lingered.

And sex drive doesn’t just ignore, it literally attempts to counter death. Someone will live if I don’t—and they’ll be like me dammit[!] and someone I love even more than me[!] And it governs everything, from your soul mate to ads on TV [pin-up girls?] to the way you curl your toes. But yeah, yeah, yeah we’ve all heard that, well-familiar now… if not at least by experience.

But then even that goes away. Whether the attraction stops for you or in you. And then you’re left facing an old demon from the back of your mind, only friend, alone.  A sad knowledge that you've always had, but somehow only just now realized.
And I guess then you stop feeling invincible?
I don’t want to shake it off, but I don’t like being so profoundly wrong. Or so aware that I'm not really aware.

There's no reason to fight it.
Megalomania keeps you sane.

The Is and the Meta

The phoniest thing in the universe is this straightforward, ironed-out, linear presentation of reality that words [read: writers, no I] inherently force into existence, that inherently is false because the certainty of words arouses indecision, deliberation.  If words, the incremental units of communication, contained the indefiniteness of life, contained the indefiniteness they inevitably heighten with the problem of choice, could we speak at all? And yet, by definition [and because of definition], could they ever reflect the blurred boundaries, the fluctuations, the transience of love&lust&death&dust... thought&vision&doubt&revision? Is this vanity, or simply humbly in vain to even write? Can words ever mean what they mean, if their very nature affects thought and confines reality?

for my Avant-Garde class in Cambridge: sex&narcissism