Goals’d change everything.  I’m ticking over, haven’t even revved the engine.  I’m experiencing a stalemate, never seeking much beyond reach.

At one point I would have set individual goals.  Health, wealth, love, body.  The works.  I’d even chant incantations every morning and every night, try and bury these ideas into my subconscious.  I’d have inspiring images, videos with uplifting music, just a bombardment of a future life I felt I couldn’t help but live.  And suddenly the vehicle’s got gas.

I want to be careful, though.  Nudge myself playfully in the arm.

“You know what can happen!”

Back when, motivation was like crack cocaine.  I lived for being hyped, and a lot of energy would segue into redundant ends.  I’m not in a position where I need to have goals, but I am in a position where things are relaxed enough to know that I could stretch out to maybe one goal or two.

Thing is, do I take the plunge…

The Quest to Get Rich

It was all meant to play out like a self-development movie.  An inspiration.  I’d just remind myself constantly.  This is my struggle.  I’d play it over in my mind,

“I didn’t have a penny to my name, all I had was JSA and a laptop.”

All I managed in total was ten grand.  Hardy the SLK and the five bedroom.  Plus, I’d beat the path so hard and for so long I couldn’t even enjoy the money.  I’d cracked in half, delusional, estranged from reality..

When it all seemed to be over I was back to the struggle, minus the inspirational rags to riches spiel.  I was just broke, broken, and lost.  I’d just got out of being sectioned and I was in no fit state to start another business venture.  I’d become religious and the world seemed a terrifying place.

Now?  I get my ESA and my PIP and I get by.  I smoke and eat, that’s about all I hope for.  I’m not altogether apathetic and I no longer feel totally broken.  But the spark of the idea’s within me once again.  Chase the money.  Perhaps it might be a good idea to stay on the meds this time and build things up slowly and sensibly.

Some Fat Guy

I feel like people miss what I once was.  To be fair, I was fit, motivated, sociable, busy and positive.  I dated a lot.  I exercised every day.  What am I now?  Hermit?  Broken man?  Agoraphobic?  Yeah, something like that.

It’s not all that bad.  I mean, the Sertraline’s working.  My mood is somewhat stable somewhat consistently.  Still I can’t shake the feeling that I should be someone who’s more, someone who thrives and strives for something greater.  Kiss the sky because it looks like a lofty desire to reach it.  I don’t know.

There’s a problem with shoulds, though.  I’m only really motivated by pleasing myself.  Once upon a time I had women to impress and a grand ego to furnish.  Now I’m resigned to the idea that if life’s not all that bad, it doesn’t really matter what people think.  Those who are true will stay, and sometimes you lose people.  It’s that simple.

No.  All in all life’s tolerable.  And I’m no longer on the verge of self-destruction and a complete obliteration of everything I once held dear.  Technically speaking I’m still in the recovery stage of a major schizophrenic psychotic episode.  I’ll focus on doing me, staying true to number one.  As long as I can look favourably on myself, I’m somewhat content.

Waking Up

You’re in the nuthouse.  Everything’s accumulated to this point.  You wholeheartedly believe your own psychotic spiel.  Until everything fades away.

I don’t believe in souls, God, destiny, the law of attraction, psychics, prophets, angels or divine intervention.  I’ve heard it said that it’d be preferable to live in a world with such magic included, but I can’t pretend that’s something’s real because I know I’ll be kidding myself.

I’ve believed thoroughly and honestly in God, that I was God, that I was a prophet, that I could use the law of attraction, that I was psychic and that the grand scheme of things worked in my favour.  Just to the pinnacle of feeling like I knew these things.

Begrudgingly taking your meds and waking up can be soul destroying rather than liberating.  Imagine losing all the magic in the world.  You have to come to terms with things.  I’m not an essence that will escape these corporeal confines upon meeting death.  I can’t do telepathy and there’s no grand ruler towering over me and the circumstances I find myself in.

It did destroy me, but it also emancipated me from the burden of such confusing and often troublesome concepts.  Life’s just simpler without magic.

I’ll have the gratification of the end of life hallucination that results from chemicals rushing to the brain.  I won’t have to worry about being reincarnated, or being accepted into some wondrous land of the dead.  Things are simple now.  And they really are going to stay that way.

What It’s Like Being Crazy

Everything takes on significance.  Coincidence takes a hike for serendipity and synchronicity to take center state.  The mind feels alive and active.

Listening to music puts you in a deep state of contemplation.  You zone in on the lyrics, they become a part of you.  The clothing you wear, the choices you make from day to day, it all adds to your sense of persona and character.

New life gets breathed into religious texts.  The purposefully meaningful becomes the downright profound.  Your sense of will is great, the enrichment of movies and TV manifests itself within your psyche.  What was once meaningless spirals into a thread, an iteration on a continuing and intriguing story.

On the flip side…

Someone’s put cameras up in your house.  Must be CIA.  They’re tracking you becuase they believe you’re a peadophile psychopath and you’re beginning to believe it too.

The living room door you screwed off’s leaning against the wall, ready to be toppled in the direction of the door once it gets kicked through by your assailants.  The pen knife next to the bed’s ready, open and decorated.

Key’s in the outside of the balcony door so you can lock yourself out there and climb up onto the roof, where you’ll leap across a gap and escape via the staircase leading to ground level.

You’re a prophet, sent from God.  They know this, the CIA knows this and the Freemasons know this.  It’s all going to end in a bloody wreck and there’s going to be a huge operation to sweep it all under the carpet.

They’ll probably torture you, tear your fingernails off with a pair of pliers.  So you carry metal bowls balls around with you to crack a windscreen through and run when they pull up behind you.

In that pub and everyone looks like a gangster.  Run away out of the window.  Climb a cliff and fall off, catch yourself.  Climb on top of a church roof in the rain.  Sleep on the angle at the top of the roof.  There’s no way they’ll hide the body.

Contemplate throwing yourself off a rooftop.  I’ll die before they get to me…