Hooah, about an hours sleep and no dreams, now I just need to stay awake…
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Getting late but sleep is about the last thing I feel like right now. What’s the point really? I’ll just wake up in an hour or three, and be looking for ways to forget my dreams, or end up thinking my brains senseless. My dreams have been horrible lately.
It usually takes a few weeks of non stop moving before my body demands a proper crash landing. Now if only I could work myself that tired, and get real rest.
Something about having a dozen windows open and a gazillion tabs of everything running, reminds me just how much I hate task bars. Alt+tab ftw.
I have a lot on my mind, one could say much to much food for though. While I try to live in the moment, for the most part, my mind never ceases, it’s even worse when more on the idle side.
For some reason, I feel very tired..
When stuck using a dead monitor as a weight, I can’t help but wonder if a comparable barbell or kettlebell would be as easy to lift off the deck, as a 21kg CRT lol.
SIGH!
In addition to the proverbial corn cob up my ass, I’ve finally managed to push my own button! Decided to shave for the first time in I’ve lost track how long, started wondering whether or not there’s still a human underneath it all. And then I cut my throat lol. Over the years I’ve become quite adapt at shaving with a very bad mood, and never leaving a scratch; which makes this all the more infuriating. Couple paper towels and a bit of red stuff later, it’s settled down.
and now I am officially pissed.
A reflection upon mindlessness
I gave up my activity, let the world slip away, and took up the call. To work, to slave, to toil. I learned that *work* means when you haven’t eaten all day, when you’d rather have condoms on your shoes then have to leave such a filthy place spotless, and you know you’re almost done when you started feeling like passing out cold over three hours ago, and you’re done when you wouldn’t care if it was a landfill, because you would still collapse face first. That was the better part of helping in this business.
This is literal, in fact if you’ve ever heard my description of the worst cleaning job I’ve ever had to live with, you know that I’ve seen much worse then the above describes lolololol. That reminds me of sth a friend once said that made me laugh, but I won’t repeat it to others.
Enough so much so that I know it, that the jobs we’ve had over the last couple years, are such a trivial breeze: it’s trivial cleaning compared to what’s already gone in the past.
This is also quite literal, compared to what it was, work has been a lot less terrible since about mid-2008. I like not coming home feeling like I was dragged a few miles.
Even at home, I’ve been treated no better then a slave, more is taken from my hide than is ever expected. Have I ever done anything, expecting a return? Maybe making a sandwich and planning to eat it too, but that’s about it.
I do things for people because I care, not because I expect them to do something in return.
What am I, am I not human? Do I not breath, tire,stab me, and shall I not [eventually] die? It’s inhuman. I am always expected to be of the machine, never of the flesh. Is it not where the difference lay?
Spend enough of your life being treated like something less than a human being, and you’ll understand it fully.
What does it mean to care, what does it mean to me? It means everything. I’m drowning.
Which is also something that separates us from the machines.
Before me, I see the question, but know not the answer. Oh, how many sleepless nights have we argued that? It seems as if, since the beginning of time.
Only a handful of people on earth knows what this is, and it has nothing to do with my family: other than they often make it all the more sensitive a feeling for me. Being a private thing, I’ll leave it at that for an explanation, for as far as this journal is concerned.
Nothing else have I ever feared, more than that question. Nothing. My insides are rent by it. Anything else, any danger, any pain, pales in comparison; risk of death or dismemberment, falls off the list.
The answer to that above question is the only thing in this world that scares the shit out of me. I’ve yet to find anything else that does, but I’ve also yet to discover an answer to the question.
What is the answer, will I ever know it? Or must I merely make one for myself, carve it out of my own bone and let it follow me down to sheol / That is where the future lay, somewhere well beyond the crest of the hilltops and beyond the moons gaze.
The alternative to finding an answer: being to to create one, which is as painful an issue as if to carve it out of ones own hide. Sheol is not an English word, it’s of Hebrew origin: those familiar with the Old Testament will likely comprehend it. Normally (in the NIV) it is translated as the grave, but carries an association with the after life. I use in a manor in between.
Fool ensnared, entrapped dolt! There is no way out but by the beat of the drums.
Battle….
In the side of my mind, I sense it repeating endlessly without ceasitation.
Both the question and being aware, that the only way out of this place is by brute force.
The roman, the arrow, the wing, the snake, or the jello, one of thine shall surely be my fate.
I’ve found 5 possible courses of action, only one person at the most, has seen that list, and only because I was about ready to bust at my seems. Being easier for my mind to refer to collections of words by names, rather than hearing paragraphs sounding in my head, obviously each has a name, that carries it’s meaning to me. GOD knows, I’ve read it enough to recite the choices from memory.
DRAFT 0.3
If early, eat a light snack // usually ~ 0130-0230
-> establish base line menu // inventory on the deploy
+carbs, +proteins, -fats
NLT 0400-0500 -> init block
Assault stretch
// dog gets locked out of the room and door barricaded if necessary
rotational choice:
enhanced press ups // mine were designed for hell!
hindu push ups
reverse crunches
crunches
reverse lunges
lunges
pistol squats
hindu squats
military presses
modified deadlift // heaviest weight avail is to bulky
first rotation: 1 minute each of 3 exercises
2 minute intermission
second rotation: 1 minute each of 3 exercises
shave / brush teeth / etc
0700 -> first foot block
running time
+ option of extending
Post -> meal 0
proper breakfast // likely self prepaired
1000-1130 -> second foot block
At least an hours driving OR prolonged foot travel
-> begin with 1 hour block for pacing speed
progress to water driven limitations; e.g.
RTB is timed in sync to water utilisation.
Post -> meal 1
lunch and extra water
// TBD: what the fuck to do in the afternoons...
A decent into mindlessness
It burns me inside, scorches my insides.
I gave up my activity, let the world slip away, and took up the call. To work, to slave, to toil. I learned that *work* means when you haven’t eaten all day, when you’d rather have condoms on your shoes then have to leave such a filthy place spotless, and you know you’re almost done when you started feeling like passing out cold over three hours ago, and you’re done when you wouldn’t care if it was a landfill, because you would still collapse face first. That was the better part of helping in this business. Enough so much so that I know it, that the jobs we’ve had over the last couple years, are such a trivial breeze: it’s trivial cleaning compared to what’s already gone in the past.
Even at home, I’ve been treated no better then a slave, more is taken from my hide than is ever expected. Have I ever done anything, expecting a return? Maybe making a sandwich and planning to eat it too, but that’s about it.
What am I, am I not human? Do I not breath, tire,stab me, and shall I not [eventually] die? It’s inhuman. I am always expected to be of the machine, never of the flesh. Is it not where the difference lay?
What does it mean to care, what does it mean to me? It means everything. I’m drowning.
Before me, I see the question, but know not the answer. Oh, how many sleepless nights have we argued that? It seems as if, since the beginning of time. Nothing else have I ever feared, more than that question. Nothing. My insides are rent by it. Anything else, any danger, any pain, pales in comparison; risk of death or dismemberment, falls off the list.
What is the answer, will I ever know it? Or must I merely make one for myself, carve it out of my own bone and let it follow me down to sheol / That is where the future lay, somewhere well beyond the crest of the hilltops and beyond the moons gaze.
Fool ensnared, entrapped dolt! There is no way out but by the beat of the drums. In the side of my mind, I sense it repeating endlessly without ceasitation.
The roman, the arrow, the wing, the snake, or the jello, one of thine shall surely be my fate.
As my faculties slowly find again some structure, I think it probably best, if I note the above can not be parsed by normal human. Much is rife with multiple concurrent meanings, English ambiguity will never constrain them such, that much can be known of its [words] significance, without knowing also the many shades it may come from. Few if any know part of those, and none know them all, save that beyond the grave where all my secrets lay.
or in short, whether you think you understand anything written, you probably don’t. I’ve always said my text reflects my brains structure, so much more so… when I’m in such a state of thought. No living soul can likely comprehend it correctly.
Nothing like tripping and nearly flying across the room, to slip start your day.
Would probably have been better to hit the wall…