/lit/ - Literature

I'm a whole other level of fucked, fucked beyond comparison. If schizophrenia is level 4 I'm level 5. I am a bitmap being plugged into Audacity, a train collision with a USB port. I don't even have the credentials to speak of "my situation". The pain is irrational and specially tempered. I have to become a genius, and am also, without exaggeration, a fucking idiot. The most fucked of street dwellers have more working brain cells than I. My abstract thought is limited to bare bones essentials. I can articulate for the exact reason my world is so fucked and that is that the fracture refracts into perspective, comparison and contrast. The number of people I am to come all incompatible with each other because my genes had no coordination in mind. I typically suck it up and wait another round of hell to go by to immediately blow it all and fuck my brain even worse as soon as the chance arises. I would rather be absolutely anybody on the entire planet than myself except a few serious psychotics who also can't kill themselves because they fear god. It's a crises so continual and far-reaching throughout thousands of years of failed incarnation, the single worst possibility for a person within the infinite vat of things that must necessarily be explored. You'd think it'd all dissociate you, but no. It makes duty, urgency, responsibility and incentive to socialize hyper-charged and yet the prospect of holding on is so failed you can feel your next lives already fucking up in advance so all there is to meditate on is the reality of your eternal impossibility for either death or living, forever.