Some rando thoughts while out walking with the text editor

 

New note

It was bound to happen. I go out walking, all by myself, day after day; I’ve started to talk to myself.

Well, isn’t that what they tell you to do? When you are being plagued by a plethora of negative thoughts? Either give them their voice or offer some resistance.

I had some thoughts earlier. Simply breaking out this device seems to have quelled them for the moment. Do I really want them to return, now that I am prepared to write them down?

Am I prepared to spellcheck them and punctuate them correctly? Maybe I should just jot down a few titular notes, and I can come back and revisit them later. Here goes:

A wiring issue.

Something about how we are supposed to be wired up emotionally to feel good, as a reward for some positive action, thought or impression that is made upon us. I will have to expand when I’m not being chased by mosquitoes. Suffice it to say, I don’t feel that my positive reward centers are correctly wired.

I need a psilocybin facilitator.

I thought about asking Jason from group. He seems to be an intuitive empath, or at least he fakes it very convincingly. Really, though, I need someone who can get in my head, when I am under the influence of something that would make me highly impressionable, and not muck it up worse than I already have. Since, on a good day, I don’t buy into the standard model of reality, I can’t have someone in there who is going to try to convince me of a bunch of BS.

While I’m on the subject, and talking behind his back, I have to ask Jason how it is that he doesn’t get triggered listening to whiners like myself drone on. I don’t have 1/10 of the problems that he has had to deal with, yet I act like the biggest sad sack of shit, with the most piss poor attitude that a human being could ever conjure up.

On the subject of suicide.

I am thinking of making a playlist. Scratch that. I was thinking of making a playlist, to kind of be a soundtrack for my demise.

Then I started thinking about how iTunes works, and about the various associated technical hurdles I would have to overcome to arrange the songs in a particular order, so that they would be played at the appropriate time. That kind of thinking is living thinking. Problem-solving. Doing.

A suicidal person need not be concerned with such things. Just fucking do it. If you’re going to kill yourself, do you take the garbage can out to the street?

My uncle put a tarp down to preserve the living room from blood spatter when he blew his brains out in the easy chair. He didn’t, however, use any toilet bowl cleaner, or bother with a whisk, at any time in proximity to the event. Yeah, it was pretty spotty and black in there.

It seems to me.

That was a heading, by the way. It seems to me that engagement is critical to being alive. The mere exercise of going for a walk, without engaging my brain, is almost completely pointless. I fail to notice much beauty anymore. Sunsets and greenery don’t have the effect they once did.

My eyes tend to fall upon the elements which bring sadness to the forefront, though. I notice dead trees. I think about the future of cattle who are grazing. I can conjure up any number of negative stories by simply focusing on the sad elements.

But even by doing what I am doing right now, writing down these dumb thoughts as they occur to me, I am actually distracting myself from the feeling of overwhelming sadness and lethargy that seems to be pervasive in my psyche most of the time. It is as though I actually think, however erroneously, that what I am doing has some significance. Why would I do it, if I didn’t?

I’ve also succeeded in distracting myself for the last mile or so, walking uphill and now downhill, so congratulations, me. Another 2 miles and I’ll be home making dinner and sitting in front of the television and feeling crappy once again. My evening.

 

 One more thing.

One more thing, as Columbo would say. When AI and human/computer neural linguistic interfaces become a reality, and thought recorders are as common as iPods, I wonder what the text editor’s version of my thoughts will look like when they are transcribed?

Back to my thoughts on suicide. And that playlist. I have at least 20,000 songs on one of my iPods. If I were to play them all sequentially it would be 67 days worth of straight listening. If I bit them off in chunks, say two hours at a time, the length of time of one of my walks, that would afford me a good two years or so. I know, because I just did the math. In my head. (Sike. I did it at home, when I edited this.)

But the idea is: at the end of the last song that ends with ZZZZZ, I would kill myself. No rewinding or pausing. Just do it. How much would I savor each of those crappy songs that I normally would just fast forward through? It’s just a thought, mind you, not a plan. I’m just not that committed to anything.

Yeah, I don’t think I could even get through Adyashanti before I either gave up on the idea or pulled the trigger prematurely. That’s a lot of listening to someone yammer on about the essence of the essence of nothing.

I tried walking in silence, according Adya’s prescription. Ha. What silence? I was assaulted by the sound of birds, my own footsteps, distant traffic and my ever present stream of thought bullshit.

I think my thoughts are kind of like those birds, yapping on about who knows what, endlessly: "I’m a bird. I’m a bird. I’m a bird. I got a worm. I didn’t get a worm. I wanted a worm. The other birds all got worms. Where is my worm?"

And my thoughts play on, similarly. Maybe I will translate them into bird speak. Is that what tweeting is? Chirp chirp chirp cheep cheep cheep squawk.

More random headers, since I am on a roll.

Tooth decay, thou shall not tempt the Lord thy God.

The coddling versus cuddling controversy.

And finally, suicide is preventable, but why? And by whom? Random thoughts about intervention.