To buy the truth and sell a lie,

The last mistake before you die.

So don’t forget to breathe tonight.

Tonight’s the last, so say goodbye.

My grandpa died. He was my rock, my best friend, and a father I never had. Cancer took him so, so fast. Cancer tore him from me and now I understand what it is to truly be alone.

My life is now BC/AD: before cancer, after death.

This blog is part of BC.

It’s time to start a new blog and carry on one way or another.

Not sure why I bothered to write as I have no readers, but it feels good to say it.

Goodbye.

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Do you remember?

Ghost in the graveyard,
now run and hide.
Or join her
at the Devil’s side.

Light strikes at a slant. The air is heavy with the familiar. Deja vu, like a seizure, rocks my brain and then I feel it. The old feeling that I thought had been long forgotten in some dark nook of my past.

The sad sickness over my chest. I clutch at it. All those times I thought I was okay unravel and there at my feet, in a rats nest heap, is my spirit. I feel so empty, abandoned, alone.

I need to work on myself and not feel sorry for myself. Whose fault is it I am where I am? After eighteen, my destiny became my own and while I can point out the myriad of, say, confounding variables, at the end of the day I am responsible for my behavior. If we tend to hold psychotic, retarded, and other compromised people to this idea, for what reason should I receive an exception? Do I dare hope for anything other than an opportunity to sweep up the pieces and start again elsewhere?

When midnight comes, it’s not too late.

I have been working on myself instead of sinking into self-pity. I’ve done what my therapist tells me to do. I’ve accepted the fact that maybe I need medication, at least for awhile. So I’ll probably be on some sort of SSRI here in the next few weeks. It was something I was hoping to avoid, but I suppose when you’re sick and haven’t recovered on your own, then you just have to bear it.

It makes me nervous to go on those meds. What if they completely block me off from the spiritual? Oh well, I guess. I need to get better. I need to take responsibility for myself. Not everyone is meant to be. . . to have . . . well, you know what I mean?

I can’t be an agoraphobe forever. I can’t count things repeatedly forever. Some people do — and I have for almost twenty years now — but that’s all she wrote for me. I can’t take it anymore. If nothing else it would be nice to not feel like the world is caving in every time something remotely bad happens.

If I take care of my anxiety, I can move on with my life, one way or another.

Do you remember
(it’s just a game)
the flowers for the dead?

And don’t you forget
(it’s not too late)
flowers on the grave.

I had another dream.

Oh, thank you brain for fucking me up this morning. Just . . . fantastic. I’m going to blame the dextromethorphan–I’m recovering from the dregs of a flu/bronchitis combo. And yes, that is exactly as brutal as it sounds.

In this one, I was looking for Bast. I couldn’t find her and broke down in front of my locker. I wasn’t in a school or anything. There was just this random locker of stuff that I don’t recall. Some person was right beside me, too, but I don’t know who. All I’m even a bit certain of is that it was a dude.

Anyway, so I broke down in front of my locker and then, suddenly, Bast stepped out of the locker. Or the middle of nowhere. Hard to remember.

She said something and I unfortunately cannot remember what it was. Something comforting. Something like I didn’t need to find her or whatever. Maybe. I don’t know. Hope it wasn’t important.

So, thanks for that, brain. Kind of messed me up this morning, but now that I’m sitting here, thinking about it, it kind of makes me smile, too. When these sorts of things happen, I suppose it’s better to enjoy it as much as you can and, when the moment passes, let it fondly go.

You’ll remember.
Forget me
not.

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Christians

Need to get the fucking fuck out of the paganism tag.

Edited for spellinh. Am  a bit drunk.

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Now there is none at all

I hope that our few remaining friends
give up on trying to save us.
I hope we come up with a fail-safe plot
to piss off the dumb few that forgave us.

I hope the fences we mended
fall down beneath their own weight.
And I hope we hold on past the last exit.
I hope it’s already too late.

So, I finally did it.

Finally managed to get in contact with someone who doesn’t suck in order to deal with my anxiety. It’s become overwhelming given my spiritual/”woo” breakdown, work concerns, family concerns, and health concerns.

But I won’t rant about health problems and what not. This blog has been, more or less, a chronicle of my failure as a spiritual human being so I see no reason to expand the misery and talk about my other failures. I mean, I’m not a failure; however, my inability to do anything right has been well documented at this point.

I hope I cut myself shaving tomorrow.
I hope it bleeds all day long.
Our friends say it’s darkest before the sun rises.
We’re pretty sure they’re all wrong.

I hope it stays dark forever.
I hope the worst isn’t over.
And I hope you blink before I do,
and I hope I never get sober.

What I’ve been pondering on and off for the past couple of weeks is what I’m going to do once I get a grip on anxiety and work on myself a bit more. I’ve come to the conclusion that, in dealing with the exhausting reality that is anxiety, I’m left with no more emotional or mental spoons to deal with anything but myself. Even now I’m sort of toeing the edge.

Maybe I’ll just go the atheistic route, like Buddhism. As sure as shit stinks I haven’t done well in the theistic arena. Oh, let me count my fucks up. . . but don’t make me account for them again. The flogging concluded ages ago, thank you.

It would be great to find some sort of elder or at least someone who isn’t a complete dumb fuck to help me along. Why anyone would mentor me, of all people, is the question.

I wish I didn’t have some sort of inner drive to do this sort of thing to myself. But I’ve always been interested in “woo”. There’s no denying it. There have been years when I haven’t touched it at all only to find a latent interest reactivated at random. So might as well see this trainwreck through once and for all. At least now I have the benefit of emotional and financial stability, along with some experience and a big helping of wisdom that I could have used like two years ago.

I miss being Kemetic.

I miss that wildly optimistic time where I thought I’d found somewhere I belong.

There’s the matter of the extended psychotic breakdown. Didn’t help with working with people, definitely didn’t help with Bast and the rest. Not to mention my dumbassery. Honestly, I’m surprised I even got a chance at all beyond the first few months.

And then, as I emerged from my psychotic breakdown, I realized that modern Kemeticism is largely like every other movement: massive amounts of fart-huffing and ass-kissing. Disagree with a BNP? Not part of the clique? To the gallows with you! Also, massive hypocrisy involving Ptahhotep. And let’s dress the gods like Barbie dolls. ‘Cause Kemeticism is soooooo zany.

Ecks. Fucking. Dee.

I mean, obviously there’s a load of humor (ranging from quite intelligent to pretty bawdy) in Kemeticism, it’s just . . . there’s a limit in my opinion. Don’t agree with me? Go fuck yourself back to your Tumblr hugbox. Or wherever you’re all congregating these days.

If I could go back in time to give myself some instructions–a sort of modern-day Wisdom Text situation–I would tell myself to stick with Kemeticism. I would tell myself to be an ardent Bubastite, to the exclusion of other Netjeru. I would tell myself to not associate too much with other Kemetics. Read what they have to say, absorb the information that seems relevant, ask questions related directly to academic/Kemetic texts, etc., but do not interact with them beyond that. Do not try to join the community.

They are not your people.

And I hope when you think of me years down the line,
you can’t find one good thing to say.
And I’d hope that if I found the strength to walk out,
you’d stay the hell out of my way.

I am drowning; there is no sign of land.
You are coming down with me,
hand in unlovable hand.

And I hope you die. I hope we both die.

March 3 is my local date for the Festival of Chewing Onions for Bast.

Doesn’t that seem fitting? I can’t, for the life of me, remember what, if anything, the chewing onions is for, or if there’s even onion-chewing involved. Doesn’t really matter, does it?

Onions have what’s known as astringency–basically a sharp, spiciness of flavor that most palates can’t handle (thus most people cook onions at least a little bit).

An onion describes close to perfectly how I’m feeling about life, the universe, and everything. Throw in some goba for the bitter disappointment and we’ve got a party going on here.

And oh, let’s peel through these years of layers of fucked up shit.

I miss Bast.

Or maybe I just miss the certainty. I really don’t know anymore.

A couple months ago, I had a dream where she told me to kiss her. Thanks, brain. That is exactly what I needed in order to pick up the pieces. You are a prize among gray matter.

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You are only coming through in waves

So here I am with a long dark tea time of the soul. Green tea, decaf, a bit of milk, way too much sugar.

Everything is lost. There are no stars by which to guide this boat. The sun set and then decided to never rise again. Instead of navigating my way through the increasingly stormy sea, I dashed myself upon the rocks. First, it was out of sheer carelessness and ego. Then it was out of spite. Despite my best efforts, I have always been the type to cut off my nose to spite my face.

Of course, none of this ever happened.

That is, while I ought to have been navigating the seas in search of–who else–Bast, maybe Shiva, I was lounging in the study, sipping green tea. Did I mention I hate green tea? All teas, really. They smell delicious but taste like heated water unless you dump in a bunch of sugar.

So that’s what I did. Kept pouring more sugar into this nasty, cold cup until I flung it in disgust and at that moment, the battle was lost. I kept looking for some magical fix to my problems. There were no magical solutions. There was no need to look elsewhere, to ask new questions, or to go through some antagonistic mentally-unbalanced phase. What I needed to do was learn how to steer.

I needed to learn that it’s okay to dump out that cup of fake juice we call tea and have some water instead.

It doesn’t help that I was legitimately having a mental breakdown starting in 2010 and not truly concluding until roughly 2014. It’s no excuse for my behavior, as I am still responsible for it even when sick, but I sure hope the gods, spirits, and people I rammed with my barely functional face don’t hold it against me too much. I should have sought help somehow. But I didn’t.

I didn’t learn to steer, didn’t learn it was okay to drink something else.

Even if there was some way to get back on track, I would have to work through my latest block. That is, I need space. Mind the yellow vest.

And I need a more “equal”–for lack of a better term–relationship with whoever I work with. It gets old being the doormat everyone scuffs their feet on, which is why I can’t stand most of the pagan and polytheism community. I’m here to drink some water and sail the ocean, not to suck your dick.

I hate green tea. Why did I insist on drinking it? Why did I not have the fortitude to say, “I think I will have something else.”? Why did I not try to steer my ship? To where have the stars gone?

Everything has now come to a standstill. This is before the First Time. This is before Vishnu woke up. This is before Chaos opened its gaping maw. There is nothing and with my hesitancy to make a move, there will continue to be nothing.

Life was easier when I was an atheist. Atheism does not require self-reflection of this sort at all.

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A Bitter Gourd

The universe spoke.

It said a lot of things, but the gist of it was as follows: fuck you.

Fuck you, fuck your feelings, fuck your thoughts, fuck everything that makes you who you are.

Fuck you for being here, and fuck you for having to die someday, thus burdening us with your putrid, fucking fuckness.

We hate you and you hate us back. You got your new start–and we put you as far as humanly possible from us. We are already impossibly remote to you. We are the glimmering star at the far flung side of the universe

Goodbye. Good riddance.

I am alone. I have been alone for a long time in a universe in which I was not meant to exist. And for the first time ever, I am truly okay with this. If I cannot be accepted for what I am, then I will learn to be content alone.

The only thing worse than being unloved by those around you is hanging around those people in the hopes they will change their mind.

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Enlightenment Achieved

Yes, I’m alive (not that anyone cares). No, I will not be posting here any time in the near future.

I figured it out. Only a few months and I figured it out.

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