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"I am gonna blow the windows of your mind"
-Saturday Night Live.

Catharsis and a good tragedy come hand in hand together. Ask� Aristotle. This is my tragedy: my mind is fucked up. Pathos is present in my life right now, I can assure you. I am such a promising child, but there is pathos. A requirement for a good tragedy. Such a good tragedy, this mind, that its getting close to the climactic end is bringing about catharsis in my system already.

Iapos;m puking vileness now. Iapos;m passing noxious, derogatory gas. Ah, Sweet. Excuse me.

Let alone with my thoughts, I could die. It is no longer a secret that I have some maladaptive behaviors, but temporary the solution that behavior could give, it can keep me sane. At least for now.

I need noise, movement, and happy things to keep me away from self destruction. Corporal self destruction or not, I need to be away in one way or another. Like whenever I imagine that I am not me. Like when I imagined that I am the man eating in Dunkin Donuts in Tokyo in Haruki Murakamirsquo;s book.

My mind is obsessive. It is not mere saccades, this obsessive thought process. My thoughts linger, they crawl, like tendrils curling and brushing on the tips of my nose. They tend to magnify. Little, pass� things become colossal and existing. I am quite an alchemist-- only that with me, gold becomes charcoal, thanks to my magnificent mind.

My life, simple as it is, is good. I have great people who support me, I am not fighting with anyone, I am not broken hearted, and I am not rich, but I am fine. Compared to the life of others, I am a lucky kid. But the things that get inside my head, golly, such horror I love my mind, I suck at numbers, but Irsquo;m happy with my mind. Thing is, when you canrsquo;t stop the paranoia, the fault finding, when you canrsquo;t stop the cache of history inside your head from mingling with your present, it gets hard. Most especially if you� are nor vocal about it. Itapos;s just you and your mind. Quite a tough love, yes.

My past does not define my future. My mind does. I get consumed with nihilistic, paranoid, thoughts. Sometimes I get really high and euphoric with optimism. I love it, I love the yellowish tint of optimism. Happy is tropical, it smells like orange, and tastes like watermelon and pineapple juice. I love it so much that I pray that I donrsquo;t stop thinking positively. But I stop. Little things that get in my head stimulated by certain remarks or actions can affect me so greatly. Sometimes an ldquo;Okayhellip;rdquo; is enough to make me cry-- Furtively, look it up in the dictionary, to add to the drama. And then other things arise in my mind. I start to cry and think about death. I plan my death. Sometimes, I genuinely can and do find pleasure in the thought of getting shot several times in the back or in getting asphyxiated. Yes, because of little things, 99 of them, courtesy of my insanity.

I do not have the right and the reason to blame people, because you guys are great and sane enough to keep me sane-- if only I am perfectly normal. Sometimes, I hate people and hurt people in my head, but no, you guys are good to me in reality. And I know better than to be mean to you. �I just am brutal in my mind because I suck at getting angry and really venting out live. My anger, more often, is genuine only when I am alone. Itrsquo;s hard for me to get really angry in person. I donrsquo;t know why. Depression is anger turned inward. I am not depressed, no. But I can be depressing.

I have always been aware that I am in conflict with myself. Quite an irony this is for a psych major, but yep. I read somewhere that 99 of everything is junk. My negative thoughts are 99 junk, but I do not have the machinery to bulldoze them away I resort to machinations, colloquial craziness, and layers of doubt-- as if the main problem isnrsquo;t junk enough. You know what I mean? No. Good.

So I talk about people. Obama, Biden, Scarlette the actress whose surname I canapos;t spell. I am self absorbed and self aware. I know better talking about me than talk about Obama. Or Osama. Or� your momma.

When it is your mind that is fucked up, everything good is fucked up. I am not consistently pessimistic, but given enough silence and boredom, I am. Fatally. And it isnrsquo;t fair when you donrsquo;t deserve to be burdened by things that other people did to you. It is not fair also to screw up peoplersquo;s heads because your own head is screwed up. Being fucked up is such a drag when your circumstances bring no reason for you to feel fucked up.

So this is me purging, because I am convinced that my state of mind is not good. Catharsis is good. Being competent can be a Catch-22. You know what I mean? Yes you do because you are competent as well.

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