The Pestilential Mire

Do you know that utterly incommunicable feeling when the Fog of Forgetting unaccountably lifts and you inexplicably remember who you are and where you came from and what your mission is? You had completely forgotten everything, you had forgotten it all. You had become mired in pestilential unconsciousness, you had been lost in the mire of compulsive self-deception. And then – when it all suddenly came back to you (as it will do from time to time) – you are left kicking yourself, you are left recriminating against yourself being such a blind self-sabotaging fool. Or maybe you don’t do that, maybe you just skip on quickly to the next bit of your life and pay no heed to that uncomfortable moment. Maybe you choose to forget again. I don’t know what you do of course, I only know what I do. I’m only talking about myself – I don’t know anything about anyone else. That’s my mantra and I’m sticking to it! I’m talking nonsense really – that’s my stock in trade. I’m talking shyte for all I’m worth. I’m yakking my head off. I’m yakking like a fool, I’m yakking like an idiot. Times are hard only they’re not. Times are hard only they’re easy – they’re too easy! I don’t do anything anymore, I just let my internal robot make all the decisions for me. I just let my acquired automatisms do their stuff, as they always do, as they always do. You can rely on the internal robot to make the decisions for you; you can rely on the acquired automatisms to always keep on doing their stuff too! If you can rely on anything in this world it is that. If you can rely on one thing in this world it is that the acquired automatisms will keep on doing whatever it is that they do. I feel happy when I say this because it’s good to have something to rely on in this uncertain world of ours, but I also feel sad. I feel sad because – well you know why I feel sad. I’ve already said it. I’ve already gone into it. I’m sad because I’m mired in the pestilential morass of unconsciousness and that’s not a good thing. What good ever came out of being mired in the filthy pestilential morass of unconsciousness? You know as well as I do that this particular morass spells nothing apart from unendurable misery, so don’t try to tell me that there’s something good about it! Don’t waste your breath. I tell myself that the misery is not so bad, of course. I try to sell myself that lie, whenever I can. ‘Come on now,’ I tell myself brightly, ‘unendurable misery is not as bad as all that.’ Only it is that bad. It is every bit as bad as that and then some! ‘Unendurable misery is not so bad’, I say with a twisted, lopsided grin, but I’m screaming on the inside. If you are telepathic you can hear me. Life is hard you see; it is hard even when it’s easy and that is at least one thing that I’ve learned! Even when life is easy it is hard. Even when life is good it’s bad, and every advantage is a secret disadvantage!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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