Black Swan Much?

Taking a day off feels good, just the whole not waiting that comes along with laying back. Nothing’s probing at you or necessarily pulling at your sleeves like a tiny little bugger that constantly needs attention but doesn’t necessarily know what to do with it when it actually gets it. Taking an indefinite vacation from people feels awesome every once in a while, in a way that only detachment can.

I don’t know what to talk about, they’re either too personal or I’m just too fagged. Ever felt fagged from doing absolutely nothing for so long that your brain cells are begging you for activation?

I’ve come to the conclusion that the psyche functions much like the body in some ways, only that it doesn’t really probe at you for execution the way your body might. You might get dizzy and throw up at first because your body is refusing what you’re ingesting, but it will get used to it after a while then you get dizzy when you don’t. That’s how all transition phases are like, they’re painful and you have no idea what the fuck you’re doing half the time. The psyche is much like that, except that you don’t get dizzy on detoxing or addiction, your psychological tummy takes a couple of tumbles then it moves on to it’s usual munching and nomming. I think that’s probably because if the psyche actually does react as diligently as the body does then we’d all probably be convulsing all over the place. You could say that if it’s giving you too much junk mail then if left untended your account will automatically deactivate itself once it has run through the storage quota. So, somehow in the way we’ve been engineered, the junk mail makes way as spam sometimes and into the inbox at others, then the junk mail folder wipes itself out every week. However, those that made their way into the inbox stay there till you’ve run through the whole limited storage and your account stops working. Then you send a longass complaint to Microsoft that it inevitably decoys by an automatic reply which is never looked into, and all you’re left with is a couple of saved e-mails and an inactive good-for-nothing account on a pseudo space. You know?

Something’s just wrong, and everybody gets the urge of pointing it out to you; because you just can’t go wrong. You’re not allowed to. You’ve gotta be perfect, spotless. If you do go wrong or slip a little then you’re in for it. Some will poke around at it and have a little fun while you’re down, because they can. Some will remind you of every zit you’ve ever had the nerve to sport and make sure to pop so it turns into a scar that never goes away no matter how many ointments you dab it with, and some just make their own special mission to put you in just the right fluorescent-lighted room where everybody can see just how much you’ve spiralled. And it’s all your fault, for telling. I should have stayed mute when I could. There’s a reason people are not wired so they’d not auto-telepath. It’s because when you’re actually down people don’t help, they poke fun and probe, they chip away at it and remind you how much of a disappointment you’ve been, and how their philanthropist efforts have all gone to waste. Then they go back to whatever the hell they were doing a couple of minutes earlier feeling a little better having vibed out a halo out of their ass.