Diary: February, 22

This month I reminised on the origins of my mental health problems, and reflected on a campaign that terrrorised me lifeless, from inherent worth contianed within the projective soul of my people.

28th

I found two photos on my phone from the 26th, so I thought I'd share them as there are no recent photographs of myself. Given our predicament I think it wise to publish previous content, at least images a couple of days ahead. All forwarded posts contained within this blog are stated as such.

That day I noticed a subconjunctival hemorrhage in my eye, I am suspecting a face spray of causing this, although there is no proof to make such an assertion. The scar on my nose is from London, when a black assilent kicked in my face as I attempted to shelter from pouring rain on a cold windy night spent displaced and homeless in Bayswater. This is more than a decade ago, but flash backs still take me back to the blood, my face upon the pavement, trying to pick up my right forearm, which he had kick broken in half. It is also the laugher and the passing comments stating that I had somehow deserved it.

Today will be another new month, as from today I have only twenty-seven days left until a possession order because valid upon what has been my home for eighteen months. When I arrived back at my flat I was angry at the cause behind being evicted, not at being evicted, as I want to leave, my stay here in Truro has been tormented by a tag team of haters, who have threatened me physically, abused me mentally, defiling everything who I am, demonising every friendship I have attempted to form here. It is absolutely incredible how this has been sustained, and consequently, because my window of tolerance became narrowed, I am being evicted for merely being "abusive" to provocation.

24th

A couple of days ago I went to Perranporth beach with a support worker (I currently live in support accomodation because of cPTSD and GAD, mental illness inflicted when I was displaced destitute on the streets of Bayswater, London; a huge Rastafarian assilent kick broken my bones in half.). Anyhow here are the pictures..

21st

Took a couple of pictures today, and damaged the mirror on my camera, struggling after the SD card door jammed on my camera. The thing is I cannot notice any difference in the pictures, very strange.

Every time I see the washed up disgrace from my window, I sea, parched, salted driftwood, dragged into tidal abyss of emotional turmoil, stoned by ten hundred million pebbles.

19th

Went to the park and lake to take some wildlife pictures and get some exercise, wish I had not had done that now, because torturous thoughts in my head are going crazy. I guess I'd be suicidal if my emotional feelings were not so numb, guess am gone way past that stage, more than a decade ago.

I'm not saying that I am incapable of killing myself, because I know I am, it is just that there is no pressure to do it any more, as I haven't felt anything but despair for so long, there isn't a trace of happiness to miss, an essence of hope to grieve upon. I was disturbed by the public during the walk, I despise them as strangers but at the same time thankful I don't know any of them.

I don't want any help, not that any real meaningful help has ever been offered, I just want to leave this world knowing I'll never have to return, return rebirthed into the Banana Republic that terrorised me beside myself, and mutilated me indifferent from my soul.

I have been so many things in my life, yet overlooked at every instance, the world is debased and completely meaningless, I guess there is a rationality that if the world becomes completely worthless, I'll cease to exist because there will be no purpose in existing and therefore not have to return here.

There must be a way out I have overlooked, somewhere, in some place in the wilderness, it has to exist.

The environmental effects of Borderline Personality Disorder are unbearable, but yet I still figure it there, myself here. Life has no meaning, no value, but keeps us alive as voided projections, debased as worthlessness to everything our existence has meant to this world.

10th

During the early hours of this morning I built and configured an IRCD server, then created a Web chat system although I doubt anybody will use it. Today I went for a walk, left the BMX indoors.

There were some really pretty flowers outside, along the way.. Anybody who was walked about the leafy greenbelt of Truro knows this view…

A countryside lane would not be complete without risk of stepping in horse dung… I love the bronze colour of these leaves, especially from copper beech trees..

I have enjoyed riding through this shallow but fast flowing ford on my BMX but not today… The way the light catches upon this is wonderful, I don't know the name of this planet though...

Even the moment before beauty has eminence... how in awe of the natural world I have been to be seen in this lifetime… The greatest curse is arriving back indoors tearful at the triggered recall trauma has inflicted upon the innocence of my perceptions…

The hypervigilance elaborates even the most small increments of beauty, these moments, my only possession I have to share… Plant life illudes cruelty against beauty, the deranged mind who would destroy this does not threat about such eloquent posturing…

Maybe I am tired, may even be tearful, but never fearful, of subtle presence, gently impressing softness upon hard chill of air… No ebb of dread, does loath from this silent flow, yet stillness of this scene caught and called presence to bare witness…

The natural world has never been dirty for me, but the impression upon the natural, from the unnatural, appears as an apparition of filth… Warm blue sky, first vibrance, turning year, the morals of defined perspectives, can be approached, but with caution, good weather not always bad…

The lane was long, seemed not to surpass motion to foot, yet called warmth and comfort upon sky without contrast… How I love to walk a moment with I, by why I ask, is this never to be shared, from a moment to pass, disparity is unequal…

Blood from sliced soul, heat impressed upon silence. Skinned from skin, motion upon moment is, definition of detachment… Maybe I am just tired, so tired, but I am not, this weeping slumber hangs without weight, yet is pervasive, and ever pensive…

Sullen shadow, set forth, staunch with might. I'll not shed tear for demise, carried afar, beyond recognition of insight… Old causes stand, departed, removed hand from hand, a life so far, yet so close, sweat, darkness, saturated skin, timber called, fell underground…

Yet I'll hurry my business as my business will worry to hurry my business, dependant yet wildness still sing whistle upon wing but feet I'll use here, closeness not to be near… Twenty-seven here, twenty-seven gone, in-between thought, impleads presence. Its not because you existed but then again it is, enfringement of ignorance, encroaching anxiety is unwelcoming…

I will not mourn this anybody, an alienated notion. When I can watch, without grasp, every soul disembark this world, hereafter does not premise pretense…

Bold as brass, my time has mistakenly come to pass. Now gone, but yet reflect tiding of sorrow, never bound to confide…

Not care for tear, fallen, forsaken from glare of eye, capsized by rising tide.

4th

Last night and this morning I have terrible pains in my stomach, I have a swollen, bloated feeling as if there has been another haemorrhage, so now beginning to suspect this is why I have a progressive inability to absorb Vitamin B12 and iron supplemented by diet alone. I've been gutted too much, I believe it's made my stomach ill, as life of my people was taken away life became subtracted from me; how can committing such a wrong be justified when that wrong inflicts illness. When the inherent worth of life is stolen from us, we describe it as being gutted, this is how it feels. Irony that I could starve to death, not unlike the other hundred million victims of Communism.

Over the last six months I have also lost weight without dieting, this I read is also another sign that there is something wrong. The irony of me slowly starving to death, life drawn out of me, out of us, by a belligerent dispossession that has inflicted this disease upon me. A four and half hour operation in June 2021 knocked me back, but I have almost recovered from the ordeal after six months of rest. Last night, I attended an open mic night and realised just how detatched I had become from everybody, and everything, from a alienated void of dejected lifeless I have become, made worse by the corona virus pandemic.

It's crazy going to the pub alone, everybody stares at me as men draw closer as if they know this is going to happen. Observing groups of people, friends, it must be really something to go out to an event with people, to sit around a table together, to laugh and joke, a sense of belonging. Yet, I've never done that, not since a teenager. In India, everybody came to me, when I was invited to events, I arrived alone, and in many ways alienated. After a while, I began to get the feeling that they were touching my feet to stop me from walking away; I am planning writing about my time in India in detail during the next few days.

I have recently been threatening about selling my BMX as I am approaching fifty years old! There are so many youths that could take the value of this bicycle further than my ailing health. My first BMX since my last BMX when I was 14 years old was purchased in premise of me being rehoused into an urban area where anxiety would perhaps subjugate me from going out, getting from A to B etc. After eighteen months of seclusion, I can now move about easier than before, so the bike is not really relevant to the original reason for purchasing it. Enjoying the ride is, for me, not a good enough reason to keep the BMX.

3th

Such weird night, tears pouring from my eyes, rolling over a lifeless face, I didn't even know I was crying until somebody ask me if I was alright. Balancing the dead weight I feel in my stomach. Life past comprehension somewhere, some place, enduring disgrace.

Slip stream through the valley of death, alienation, lens of contorted persepectives, knowing not the hour of day, when, who, where from this thousand yard stare. Floating drift wood valued by finder, treasured by the finder, thought provoking to few, born was, am I?