I am absolutely exhausted lately. I have precious little hope or prospects, but my willingness to be generous and sharing has in itself become a major, major fault. Is what normies refer to as love a willingness to put oneself in an awkward position for the minimal benefit of others? I honestly do not know, but I am altogether tired of being in an awkward position. I look upon my life and think that I want to go home and rethink it. Then I realise something that Billy Bob Thornton said so well in Bad Santa. It is too late to start over.
This is what I find so distressing about the world I am part of. We could be such a strong and brilliant people if we would only work out how best to help each other be what we can be. I am not a fan of Karl Marx at all, but the words “from each according to his ability, to each according to his needs” is a great description of how our world should be. As is said in one philosophical piece of a more recent era, we have a whole generation where our best and brightest are waiting tables and serving at cash registers. We have an entire generation working jobs that they hate so that they can buy shit that they do not need.
I think part of the conflict I have with the society around me today is that I was brought up believing a lie. That if I learned the things I was good at, and learned them well, I would find a way in the world through that. Instead, I am expected to work for free and starve to death whilst people whose only qualification above me is that they are normie enough live it up like Kings. How it comes as a surprise to anyone that I find this insulting or even disgusting is beyond me.
Thus, I am stuck in a position where not only can I do nothing to help the people I genuinely care for and want to feel happy with (the list these days is rather short). In a position where I can do nothing to help myself, either. And make no mistake about this. I believe that in order to help others, one needs to have a solid foundation under themselves. Which is a frustrating point for me, because even at the ages when one is meant to be building a foundation for themselves, the people around me were more concerned with knocking down whatever I had built. So in spite of not being really suited for it, I wander without foundation or floor, hoping for a change. But I am going to repeat it: it is too late to start over.
Sometimes, when I am listening to others speak, I start to feel overwhelmed either by what the visualisation portion of my brain dreams up in response to what is being said, or my thought process about how to respond. The difficulty is compounded when the person I am listening to is important to me. There are maybe two or three people I have conversed with in the last decade who qualify as part of this group. And there has been at least one occasion when I speak to every single one of them where I think “huh? what the fukk have I just heard?” because my brain apparently gives my ears about a thousandth as much priority as my eyes.
“Your emotions make you a monster”, I believe Jello Biafra once sang. He is right. At the heart of all monsters, real and imagined, is a core of emotions. And I am frightened by that. There are people in the world I love. I will not name them all. My nieces and nephew qualify because, well, show me a man who would not kill himself to help his baby sister’s children. But that is a kind of love that I think every decent Human being feels. And when a person is nearly old enough to be in the highest risk category for heart attacks or prostate cancer, it stops being noticeable. The instinct I have that I would happily die giving bone marrow for the benefit of my sister’s children is not really thought about except when I affirm it because I consider it a given.
The love I feel or felt for others that are in a category of their own, on the other hand, well, that is a funny thing. If you love someone in this sense, you have to trust both them and their judgement. And when you feel yourself unworthy to sit in the same space as them, you have to expect it as a given that they will wonder why they are near you. That, in a nutshell, is why I would rather be on a battlefield separating people who are okay with child abuse from their heads. Because when hate is out in the open and perfectly obvious and being acted upon in a strong manner, it can often be more liberating. If I could interview every Scottish berserker who painted himself blue and ran into the midst of English defenders waving a heavy sword to and fro, I would be willing to bet they would say they do it because seeing an enemy die makes them feel good inside.
Forgive me, for I only just thought of this. I started watching my BD of Indiana Jones And The Temple Of Doom. And whilst it does not stray too far from the formula that made Raiders Of The Lost Ark so awesome, the one area where it fatally undercuts itself is in the natural flow of comedy. Throughout the opening act, we are treated to a seeming avalanche of comedy. But partly because of how horribly written one of the characters is, the comedy seems terribly forced and unnatural. It is a credit to Harrison Ford and, to a lesser degree Ke Huy Quan, that the audience stays interested throughout this part of the film.
Love is like comedy. The more forced it is, the worse it feels to the person experiencing it. This is one reason why the television series M.A.S.H. encountered such a great deal of back and forth about the absence of a laugh track. The suits in the television studios were concerned that the audience would not accept the show without being told when they were meant to laugh. But to an intelligent man, the show is a lot funnier without the laugh track. Partly because surprise and the illusion of spontaneity are essential to humour. But also because what I find funny and what idiot normies are told to find funny are two different things.
You know that old saw about how different people find different things attractive? Well, when you listen to enough people speak, you soon realise that that only goes so far in practise, too. Looking through a collection of personal ads on the myriad of dating websites reveals a peculiar sameness about what 99.99 percent of the adverts say they are looking for. But what does a person who has been beaten, eaten, and vomited by the mainstream society around him have to look for, or look forward to?
And therein lies an important point. The normie, mainstream world could offer me everything I believed I wanted before I was told that I am autistic. They could give me a nice house in the hills, a Lamborghini, and a cosy place to work for more than anybody should be paid. Back then, I might have been content. But now that I know that I really am an alien and have no place in the normie, mainstream world, there is nothing they can offer me in order to make me play nice.
I am tired. Tired of existing in a world that is not so much a world anymore as it is an abyss where everything that has the potential to be better is killed, and what is beautiful is ruined. Hence another reason I am so enamoured with the film TRON: Legacy.
I would give my life to go to another world.