Here is a fantastic quote I read:
“Every day I listen to children complain about their problems. Their opinions, their friends, the media, their phone.
I often spend hours talking to myself to convince myself I’m not crazy. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to be schizophrenic and have new age people talk to you about their magical powers? To find occult books as a child? To find that shit on the internet? To be given stolen UFO reports and documents? Coupled with having to be responsible for others?
For the past year, my ceiling has been talking to me. Some days I fucking swear it takes me to another dimension. Pictures, too, but more on that later. It warps into words, sentences, it even fucking talks. It tells me to do things. Many things. Some I do, some I’m sure I shouldn’t. I don’t know if they are real.
It turns into faces. Demons, witches, animals, gods, angels, just nouns. Nouns that watch me writhe. I know the faces are real. They have personalities. They also argue with each other. They don’t always speak English, but neither do the voices in my head. I think most are me since the volume is always the same, but I can’t be sure. That candle. Clarity. Sometimes entities use my ceiling as a portal. One has a horrible Cthulhu vagina for a mouth. It likes to French me to make me infertile and lust for flesh. I know I shouldn’t listen to her, but I think she is a succubus I fucking Inherited. Got shit like that from fucking both sides of the gene pool. It’s like having a dog that rapes you when you dream so you trained yourself to sleep 10 hours a week.
My fucking drug addict father ruined any chance I had at inner peace. Do you realize what it’s like to be sitting in silence after hours of arguing voices and hear a fucking adult throw a temper tantrum?
Side note: When I was eight, he taught me to hunt with a 12-gauge. Rabbits. At about 50 feet and never shooting a shotgun before, I clipped its spine. With its front two legs, it crawled away for 20 minutes. When I found it 15 feet away, I approached, ensuring I would not let the creature suffer any longer. When I shot it, it flew into the air, and fur, yellow shit, and blood rained. All I found was the blood, head, and left hind leg.
My father also pulled a dead quail breast apart in my face that night. Seed and blood shot all over my face by the light of the campfire.
I felt sorrow for the death of the rabbit and pets I have had. To all else, I am numb without consent.
Walls have been talking to me for years, and most houses are easy dimensional windows, but they rarely know you.
Most hardwood plants are easy to communicate with as well. They are pretty cool. I often melt into trees and feel them melt into me. It is one of the few pleasures I know is real in this horribly insane world of self-entitled children.
It’s easy to get a feel for stones, but they are more cryptic.
Often, when I talk to people, ghosts of my pasts or other realities blend over the original. Like if the layers on Photoshop had variable opacity, as did the audio I heard. I often use small talk to change reality.
I constantly have to return to first person view. I usually view myself from about 30 feet above me, or a few feet in front, above, and slightly to my right at once.
I have difficulty knowing which conversations I’ve had were with the real person, my memory, or an alternate timeline.
The ghosts from my pasts are eternal. They pervade my thoughts and visions. I don’t even remember which ones of them are real, but I don’t care. They are mine.
Sometimes I feel my soul and psyche shred. I pace around holding my face on as I feel parts of me are ripped out and replaced by demons. I scream and argue with myself and the demons while they work their way in. I used to resist, but Hellraiser has some great quotes.
I’m sure cannibalism, necrophilia, necromancy, and human experimentation will forever be a fantasy, but these thoughts have become more prevalent in recent times. I feel something is in conflict, but I’m not sure. I kind of feel like I am constantly torn by the urge to punch the people I’m talking to to collect their teeth, and the urge to be polite.
That isn’t constant. I avoid humans.
I still taste the first pussy I ate. I have never fully accepted whether or not it was normal. I hope that isn’t how people taste.
I once contemplated fucking a brick wall. The deciding factor was that I didn’t have enough time.
When I look at certain objects, I feel like we meld together, like with the trees. It isn’t always enjoyable, like they are fucking every cell of my brain at once.
When it’s nice, I don’t want to leave, but the few friends I do have are so fucking impatient. People are the death of me.
I’m pretty sure things I have are haunted, primarily because many of them are dead animals or belonged to dead people. They give me weird looks. Maybe a schizophrenic who hears voices argue in dead languages shouldn’t have dead people’s things. Even before I was old enough to be effected, spirits talked to me. I also drowned in the ocean, and we have had a fantastic friendship ever since. It even helped me on a Physics test.
Along with the voices, walls, ceilings, trees, etc., that talk to me and argue amongst themselves, I often am subjected to their small talk. Shit that I don’t care about or even know about. How does that happen?
I’m pretty sure there was a rift between realities in my wounds long before they found me. I think the sores are what started the whole thing.
Sometimes spirits take over my body and I ride them out. At least I think I ride them out. They could be bored.
Every five seconds, a child starves to death.
Don’t take their meds, they are poison. They make you a zombie and you can never urinate the same again.
Don’t look in the mirror.
Don’t look in the mirror.
Don’t look in the mirror AND I MEAN IT THIS TIME.
I do not give a fuck about your iPhone not working.
I do not give a fuck about your essay.
That’s what goes on inside my head.”