Know Thyself in Jung's manner means to become familiar with, to open oneself to and listen to, that is, to know and discern, daimons. Entering one's interior story takes a courage similar to starting a novel. 

(maybe) the key is to have one or two definite projects in-progress, and ever at the forefront of your mind (or near the forefront, within the forefront's reach), so that whatever else you encounter is sifted through the prism of those projects, so that the rush of incoming data can be quickly bent to productive design. thus there persists a steady note of relevance, the random and useless suddenly become affected by an afternote of possibly-useful, possibly-relevant.

and so in your scraping-over, your running-through, there's a Something perched behind you, digesting, transforming--

Subset of Menagerie 5.

Their dossiers could be drawn from the subterranean archives and consulted for detail, for background, yes you could mine the triplicate paper-trails for elements of beginning, middle, and end, sign and symptom, diagnosis and treatment. You could make that effort, make it twenty-one times, you could chart the unlevel progressions of each body, each mind, map the histories and plot the tragedies—all of this you could do, of course, it’s standard protocol, out there—

But we are here, not there, and the familiar orchestrations of treatment, remedy, and most importantly understanding do not seem to apply now, here, in this place, in this state. This being some site of exile, some refugee camp for the indeterminate, for the unsettled, the cannot-be-settled.

Here too there lurk the impenetrable administrators, but as with the residents they administer to, they are also, in a sense, fallen. Perhaps you’ll consult their dossiers as well, and then move upward through the chain of command, to governors, to kings, to spirits and gods?

Or else this is a place and a time where previous methods expire, where moot is the keyword, where a confused and listless stasis reigns, like a sentence, a judgment—to which you would be at a loss, were you to ask, by whom?

Maybe a tilt of your perception would at least free you of certain intractable anxieties, could maybe offer a boost, a kick, serve as a palliative. A tilt leftward, clockwise or counter-, downly-upward and spheroid, change for the sake of it, a derangement of the senses—

Anything to pass the time, here, where it passes, just passes.

Gatekeeper M-B-A Downfall Contagion

Perfected company man, metaphysical middle-manager. Z. lived triumphant in his shepherding role, he was an acclaimed fixer.

A fisher of men.

Z. would want for nothing, insulated by professional indifference, wholly independent from petty, decadent concerns. Passing to and fro from common space to common space, Z. was the gatekeeper to the ineffable mysteries of The Bold-Printed Signs, and this critical intermediary status contained the beginning and end of his desire, singular--for he had only one desire, to serve faithfully the grim force of which he was the only visible representative.

So it was, until, until now, here--as if having contracted an airborne illness, pathogens exhaled by these his charges, these twenty-one subjects condemned--

What, like some unconscious vengeance? And now, only now, after so many previously felled in the name of The Mystery.

centipede fuck-me

O to write a chronicle of misery
(none would want to read it)
(i don't even want to read it)
Motion ceasing and daylong stuttered misstep prolonged, extending, the champion Nothing, broad grand unfurled Nothing, day-crushing limb-tearing Nothing, and on and on, so on, so such on and such such so on....
When pills run out, or else on the random chance, whenever wherever, reasons unknown, reasons non-extant, just the mindless Cycling.
Tears but not really, sobbing but not quite. Stasis, unmoving, fixed, affixed, froze, suchlike etc.
Days like this, days and weeks. Flow, what flow? Nonesuch now, just, just--Nothing.
So flow, thus, the unflow, so--Nothing.
Day-crushed breathless and gasping, long day dead day, no-day, Nothing.
And on and on like this, and on, and on...
Reasons unknown, reasons unborn, REASONLESS.
Hello Random, Hello Spontaneous, Unmoved Mover, Demiurge.
Fast-food crying jag in the back booth, but not really. Not so romantic, not so expressive. Just the listless silent eye-twitched tongue-lolled Naught Naught Nothing.
And as said, as said, days like this, whole days, whole weeks.
Whole life, whole future scene. Revealed. Unveiled. Unfurled.
Whole days, non-days, non-lives, stasis, static.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.

The Vampyre of Time and Memoryyy

Recalling past-life, remember you used to socialize, recalling the flare-ups of shortlived friendships, sick to your stomach to recall it all, to connect that Talking Mouth to this identity as it currently sits, lethargic, withdrawn, subdued. Defeated? Perhaps something along that lines, yes, AS SUITABLE DESCRIPTOR.

So much that was born, that died, some unhinged cacophony of random interaction, somehow SOMEHOW you *now* are responsible for *that* back then? Are tied to it? Are its lingering kin?

Again to say, more apt than any adjective, i feel a certain ILLNESS to remember this. There is a pronounced wrongness, somewhere, at the root.

This mouth, how it ran. These eyes, how they spun. BUT NOT NOW. BUT NOT. "ME. I'M NOT."

How to comprehend the linkage between this and that, then and now. How to comprehend the gaps, the great alterations. One self, multiselves, sonewhat, somehow? Such grand grand clusterfucks of Time and Memory....

But still, to add this as coda: all that back then, HOW I WAS, it sickens me partly because it is preferable to this, to what i am now, this sluggish narcoleptic mole....

You can know that a thing is doomed either way,
you can know that you'll eventually end up right back here,
so intellectually, you know it's all a wash--
and yet you'll still break down over it,
over its absence, its non-existence, its abortive state.
Still you'll break down like the little bitch you are,
visions of weaponry and knots, familiar phantoms of the Never Will.
Crying like a bitch,
like a little fucking bitch.

No forgiveness for those that reveal alternatives.
We'd rather not know.

The Eradication of distance.

Distance correlates with ambiguity.

Ambiguity is the foundation of self-torment.

Distance becomes a device with which to bludgeon the Self.

The only established method for eluding such bludgeoning is the forced forgetting of what one is distant from.

There cannot be anything or anyone out there.

That’s the eradication of distance.

Entity Lack.

An entity.

An entity who persists in your environment

Only to remind you of what you lack.

An entity to drill Lack Awareness into you,

Deeper daily, intoned in every Dick Joke.

Fun and games, hoots and hollers,

Get your lulz and note your Lack.

That's the entity, that's its purpose.

And you cannot get away, you cannot turn it off,

Because then your Lack would only grow larger, deeper.

The Lack.

The Lack.

The Lack.

Weaponary

Always finding new ways to insult me, these kids, these future leaders, these present Agonies.

Am I too sensitive? Of course.

But there's an underlying schematic, an aim for agitation.

Unconscious, maybe, maybe probably.

But wrenching nonetheless, lolololololololol.

Kill Me.

How could you ever sleep with the mad banshee wailing that surrounds the Agony, but not even the body, no, even the thought, the mental presence, remembrance and whatever, whatever.

How could you sleep through that noise, how could you think.

The smallest mention and innocence be damned, off it goes, here it comes, jackal screams and hyena cries, every kind of disruptive, beastly, unwanted sound—

But not even sound, more so the dead weight of perpetual presence, the clamp-down and choke-out of sensory independence, of sensory indulgence. All is crushed, all is confined by the toxic swirl of an Agony’s everlasting domination.

You let it in, this is what you get.

You have to let it in.

And you do, though you know the past and can predict the future. All of this, algorithmic.

Breaking away in desperate attempts to regain some balance, swearing them off, turning away—but always somehow, at some later point, giving in, coming back, opening up.

And an Agony will always be willing to service you, to both create a void and be its occupant.

All the power, all the power of the Agony.

Subset of Menagerie P-3.

K. had descended into a state of desolation, the mind-forged figures and diagrams now disrupted, rendered blank and absent within his mental workspace.

Nothing had been committed to paper, so everything was lost, but K. wasn’t bothered over that specific aspect of the problem.

The broader concern was the Why of the entirety.

Why even do this, to what end.

To what actual end, the real motivation.

K. had begun to crumble into a vicious circle of self-interrogation as news of the Forthcoming Agony spread. K. deliberated over what he could show to the Agony, were they to engage each other, K. pondered how best to impress her with his theories and research.

But this slowly put the entire operation under internal investigation, because the question became, was this in fact the purpose—marketability to an Agony—rather than the previously-subscribed-to SEARCH FOR TRUTH?

So it all unraveled  from that point, all assumptions were annulled.

K. had a scarcity of reasons, a lack of understanding into the foundations of his drives.

As his mind turned over and over on this subtopic, or perhaps Ur-topic, all of the work previously built up began to somehow disintegrate, quietly, unnoticed.

Because, again, nothing had been written down. Pure nonphysical  memory held it all, sustained by a curious passion, which supposedly intellectual passion now began to look more like base lust covered over in a shoddy disguise.

So it went, it faded, it wiped itself away.

Time and distance remained as they ever were, unscathed, unbroken.