The essence of this message is that I do not

know myself. I fear not knowing myself. I am

paralyzed by the knowledge of myself. To know
myself would be to stop fearing myself.
Therefore, I fear knowledge of myself.
When I was born, I saw the doctor’s face, the faceless energy of a foreign

influence. I didn’t know what to do even then. I always felt like I wasn’t free, even

from then on. After all, I was assigned a gender and a name and many other

things, but that didn’t mean I knew what I had to do. As I kept growing, my

feelings were repressed further and further, since my relationship to other people

didn’t form out of anything. I kept finding myself pushed downward, more and

more. The answer didn’t come for years, I know. Like a chess game, life has

answers, clear truths that can only be revealed through careful self-work, and yet I

didn’t find that answer up until I began living without passiveness. I have two

parents, two figures that cause great karmic upwelling in me, and that is part of

my suffering, but it doesn’t mean anything. I feel them yelling at each other.

They’re producing energy. I cannot know what to do about them.

I don’t fear that, you know. I fear the illogical presence of energies that

comes about from my own psyche interacting with the outside space. I’m sorry if I
write a lot, since it helps me produce more with the feelings I have. I have too

much in here. My fears aren’t real, you know. They consist in something beyond

the here and the now, I know this. They consist in what my damned psyche has

produced time and time again. It doesn’t mean the feelings are real. Please forgive

me if I produce too much here. My own thoughts aren’t available to me.

Sometimes, when I want to cry, I don’t know how to cry, because the tears don’t

come from the right place. My fears, since they are beyond me, must be

harnessed at the source and felt. I don’t know where these things are, but I know I

want to hear them and listen to them. I have never truly understood that before, I

know, because my feelings were abstractly hidden and unavailable to me. And

now, now, my fear has finally found its source. The suffering, that gentle pain that

comes from being, only comes about because I don’t listen to myself. My friends,

my enemies, my hate, my love – these aren’t real. They are but temporary

emotions that I must recognize and break down, conceptualize and simplify. No

longer do I need to be a victim. I was a victim for too many years.

When I was younger, I loved many women, and was a victim to their beauty

and gentleness. I thought I was doing well for myself, when instead I was forging

my own death from the fires of my ego. I declared my feelings, I made it known

that I wanted to spend my life with them. I was willing to sacrifice everything. But
I was naïve. I was impassioned and stupid. Why was I so blatantly unwilling to

accept myself in this world? And why did they make me identify with suffering?

Quite like my parents, who have lingered for 30 years in the nonexistence of a

bad, fruitless marriage, yet with no success to show for it. And that has happened

countless times, since my life consists in something that I can’t identify for myself,

and I know full well that even the simplest of influences wouldn’t be able to talk

to me if I didn’t really listen. When I was 12, I asked my dad what it means to be

insignificant beings floating on an isolated rock. I was a troubled child. Other

people were like shadows to me. I wanted to know them, to love them, to be like

them, and yet I always felt like some lingering part of me wanted to just kill myself,

even kill them, and end it all. Never, not once, did I want to kill them out of hatred

for them. I only wanted to do so out of hatred for my situation, for my mental

state, for my indignation at this ever coming to my mind. Why would I want to kill

innocents? My fucking father threatened me, my mom, random strangers, and all

for no reason. Am I so different, then? I fear becoming a psychopath, losing my

mental stability. I see insane people on the street, raving maniacs and invalids, and

I fear that I could become like them with one bad trip of X, or one life-threatening

injury, and all could collapse before me.

 Therefore, I don’t fear death, no, but dissolution into nothingness. And not

the Buddhist kind of blissful dissolution we love to talk about, but the descent into

nothingness, the process of becoming a failure without salvation. And indeed, I

wish I could produce things consciously and with a sound mind, since I know that

all the feelings I have thus far come from a source I can’t feel. I know that this

feeling of unfeeling is what makes me suffer, since I don’t belong to God anymore.

It seems that God wants me to listen to myself, to cry, to dance, to fight with a

fervor that is truly my own – but where does this come from? Suffering hasn’t

brought me the answers that made me fulfilled. I have felt happy and sad before,

but that doesn’t mean I have felt life. I might have identified with feelings, fears,

too, I admit, and that doesn’t mean these things belong to me. I’ve felt death

before too, admittedly, because death has wanted to claim my heart many times.

You know, in writing these words, I only wish that my heart would listen. But I can

keep writing words and produce nothing. Why am I a writer, then? Why do I

philosophize, if to no end? I am no mystic. I have alleged to take in the pain and

suffering of the human condition, yet I cannot fruitfully resolve my own. My mind

is impatient. It fears thinking too much, for it attaches too quickly and impulsively

to things. What am I supposed to do? Why can I not just be happy?

 I feel that I’m afraid of being happy. Sometimes, my happiness would come

about from just telling my parents to go fuck themselves. They are hopeless all the

time, trapped in the perpetuity of love-dependency. Their past was imposing,

overpowering, dreadful. It seems that mine wasn’t better either. So I fear the past.

I fear everything. It’s true. My mom cooked food for my dad and asked him why

he doesn’t want food. Instead he says he wants to cut her with a knife. I fear such

things, for they are irrational. It seems that my parents are suffering from great

delusions. I come from this too. I know that I fear it too. I am genetically fearful. I

have come about from a system that makes me fear. I do not want to buy into

false values and false people, be overtaken by a heretical urge to kill others, none

of this. I am not a fool. I am too much of a thinking person to let myself be

overwhelmed. Yet it this exact thinking, this process of mind-obsession, that has

brought me to suffer. Thus, I fear my mind. I fear the fact that everyone is sane

except me, since that means all my thinking has made me worse, much worse,

than I initially was when I did not think! And that must be contradictory somehow.

And it means that this whole project, this life that I was supposed to lead, has led

me to something I can’t feel or think about.

Why, then, would God form me this way? I don’t believe that I’m here to

suffer. I don’t think my parents are here to suffer. Suffering is necessary, but not
the only thing in itself. It is a foundation. My parents yell at each other. They chide

each other, tell each other to fuck off, and I passively listen to this. I drink my

Miller High Life, trying to understand what it is to take in essential Being. I am not

angry at them. I am angry at myself. I am 21 years old. For a 21-year-old Self, this

is a difficult ordeal. I’m happy that I can still fight on. My life will continue to reveal

itself. I don’t mind if my parents lose themselves. I don’t mind if I die. I just want

to die with a sound mind. I have read the Stoics for that exact reason. How many

words can I produce in 2 hours? An infinite number, so long as I wouldn’t be

bothered. But I am always bothered. There is always something wrong, and

always something to worry about. Police sirens blaring, threatening and menacing

me with the prospect of an arrested dad. What can I hope for?

My father wants to build a utopia. Did you know that he’s beautiful for

that? I don’t fear my dad. I don’t even fear myself. I only fear what isn’t rational or

real, what appears to me in the form of illusions. My father makes me and my

mom feel like we’re the only ones to blame when all three of us are to blame. And

he makes me angry. And I fear that I come from such a person, who had once

been good, who was not always an unforgivable demon of this kind. And what am

I supposed to do, then, if my suffering was partially induced by my circumstances

and the people around me? I earned this karma, but why? That’s the great fear I
have. I don’t understand why I am given this. I have met a lot of people. I have

made good friendships and relationships with them. I have a girlfriend who cares

about me and loves me. Yet I haven’t felt myself in a long time. Right now, as I’m

sinking so deeply into Self that it hurts, I realize that most of my sufferings are

inaccessible to me. I realize that my family is foreign to me. I realize that most of

my friends will never understand me or my suffering. What can be done?

I have not been able to learn English well enough to convey my psyche’s

thoughts. It’s probably impossible. It extends to levels beyond me. I am not

detached – I am hurt. I want to be detached, to be impartial to suffering, but even

Buddha had to suffer greatly before he embraced that path. I must learn what it

means to embrace my detachment and be free before my judgmental road. I

sometimes wanted to love others just because, perhaps at my own expense, and

maybe I was even willing to compromise myself and be labeled a madman for it.

But why? Where did this fundamental lack of pragmatism arise from? I just didn’t

care anymore, probably. Sometimes, I fear that I am a nihilist and a hedonist, that

I just want sex and love for free. But I know that the fight is too great for that. I

know that suffering is absolutely necessary for acquiring anything remotely real. I

am not talking anymore. I hate that. My autopilot caught me. Fuck.

 Let me sink back into myself again… when I play chess, I often forget myself.

I can’t be involved with my self-identification. And sometimes, I play chess for the

answer, while other times I play for the experience. I don’t always want to play the

best move. Sometimes I want to have fun. In some way, life is no different. If I

constantly live for the truth and objectivity, I will incur great suffering in myself,

since I am not made for that – yet, if I forget that there is an end attached, and I

let myself enjoy Being for even a short time, I realize how liberating it can be to

just Be. It’s just incredible, I think, how hard it is to let go. I don’t even realize that

my writing right now is coming from a part of my psyche that I don’t understand. I

don’t know where I am, what I am, and why. And that is greatly discontenting. I

shall perhaps tell you, then, that my greatest fear is non-being. And not death,

necessarily, but the feeling of no longer being an entity. I have a fear of not being

myself in a world where I seemingly was myself for 21 whole years. And I fear

love. I fear it so much. Oh my god, I wish I could understand love. I wish I could

embrace myself selflessly. I don’t understand what my feelings are. I am not in

myself. I see my heart, my love, my feelings, as just a part of the temporary image.

Maybe this writing makes healthier minds sick.

I don’t know anymore. What’s a personal story anyway? Isn’t this all in my

head? Well, why do I suffer so? It’s like my body has registered it. It’s like my soul
itself has taken in this suffering!!! I don’t understand it. Maybe writing this much

is difficult. I feel like my own being can’t listen to me sometimes. You know, when I

play chess, I like the feeling of letting go. I like it when I can be myself over the

board. It’s the same with my girlfriend. When I can let go, kiss her and hug her, be

one with her, there can’t really be suffering there. It can’t really be considered

anything more than self-embrace and the embrace of her. I love my girlfriend, but

again, I fear that I just love her to fill my own void. Do you understand what it is to

live with the guilt of one’s actions being vain and for no good cause? I fear my

moralism. I like to consider myself a ‘good person’, yet all the people I’ve hurt and

influenced badly have not come unscathed from my ‘goodness’. It’s almost as

though it’s a pretense, a farce that I’ve put up to reassure myself that I’m living.

And yet my moralism kills me, sucks the blood from me, because no moralistic

person is happy. I’m only happy when I don’t brood and think on the task. The

Taoist wisdom that comes with Being is simple: Being is hard only when we make

it so. Why must I think about the task? The task is there. The struggle is there. I

must fight and earn my bread. I can love my girlfriend and not feel guilty. She is

my girlfriend. I can play chess however I want and for whatever reason and not

feel guilty. It is my game. And so on. I shall not hurt myself over bullshit any longer.

I can grow from here. I only fear losing my way. That’s a great fear for me.
 But to lose my way is to understand that it can be found again, yes? God will

not have made me think these thoughts if they just came about for no reason. The

great problem in me, I think, is that I’m not in control of my thoughts or actions,

yet hold myself accountable for all things, for I know I am. And yet my thoughts

will flutter randomly in my head, as though they aren’t even mine, and my feelings

will truly attach to everything, helplessly sometimes, and I will feel like they won’t

belong to me much of the time. And what can I do about that? My freedom isn’t

owed to me. It isn’t just some gift I can create out of thin air. I know what my

freedom is, but when will I get it and how? I don’t know such things. I can only

know that right now, because of my soul trapping me to myself, I am not free. But

my not being free has no implication on whether I will be in the future, or

whether I am free in the grand sense. You know, I saw God a few times. I tried

talking to him too. But only in my deeper world did I experience him, probably as

a product of myself interacting with the world. But you know what? I seem to be

unfree. I seem to constantly be a plaything of God rather than an agent. Maybe he

is mocking me? Maybe he is channeling all of his energy into me to teach me

some fundamental lessons? I just want to enjoy my life. I don’t know how much

more I can write this for. It’s like being in great pain and just wanting to let go. And
I have let go already. I fear getting to that point in my life where I won’t even

recognize myself, when all will become just an abstract blur and nothing more.

And all these words, the good, the moral, the true, the absolute, these are

not meaningful to me. They are abstracts, empty casings of language that don’t

offer anything more than a key. My salvation is in my own hands. I fear nothing

but that which I tell myself to fear. So, if I fear something, I will learn to stop. I fear

people, yes, who challenge me. I fear people who show me my own frailty. And

yet I respect them more than anyone, since they showed me that there’s still

something to learn from this Earth. I fear failure, since every failure I’ve ever had

has shown me that I am still subject to error, still prone to be a bad person in

some way – yet where is this connection I make between failure and being bad?

Such a thing doesn’t exist. Like my friend said, “only the dead don’t make

mistakes”. As painful as it is, I make mistakes by trying not to. I am hurting myself

by trying not to. By avoiding the painful, I appear to invite more of it. Instead of

avoiding this dreadful dissolution, I shall embrace all that comes with Being. I shall

take the hardships, the insults, the failures, and I will come back a better, stronger

soul. I have no other choice, I know. I don’t actually know what I fear anymore.

When I started this writing ordeal, I thought I had fears, when in fact I just have

constructs, illusions of the self that I wrote up myself. Wow, how pathetic I must
be if I am this way! What have I done for 21 years? What have I feared but my

own mental illusions? Why do I still have attachments? Perhaps the mystics are

right when they set their goals above all others, and give no fucks about the

resistance that inevitably comes about. And why do I, in my everlasting narcissism,

care about what other people think? I can reflect on their words, take up their

critiques, but I am not them, and so their words don’t work for me the way they

do for them. And so I must no longer fret, no longer fear the death of fear. I am

not fearing anything but what I think I do.

Why don’t I, in my love for life and love for others, fear no more? Why

should I not, then, embrace that being in myself that is truly me? God would be so

happy for me when he realizes that I found my heart. Perhaps this is what the

mystic is. He doesn’t care anymore. He realizes that he has never cared, that his

unfortunate symptom called ‘caring’ was brought upon by a mechanical aspect

that wasn’t him. He just wants to love some more. Why don’t others love, after

all? They are indignant at something, they have a target, they must be angry. But I

am not angry. I am just pushed towards energies of anger. I fear being worse, but

this fear is what makes me worse. I am not fearful. I have vanquished the aspect in

me that must doubt myself, chide myself, because those aspects have only made

me worse. I am meant to be free. What are my fears, then? They are just illusions
I’ve worked up over the last few years, probably when I wasn’t conscious enough

to acknowledge them. After all, most of my life, I’ve lived as a robot. I was just an

automaton, taking in sensations and perceptions. Consciousness has only befallen

me recently, when I realized how much there is that I don’t know, and maybe even

don’t need to know, to be myself. I can be free, liberated, true, without the

damned need to constantly perform at maximum capacity. I’m not a fucking

machine! I’m not artificial intelligence. I am a human.

I am suffering, and I must be free from that suffering, but to constantly

suffer is part of being human. And to accept that suffering, finally taking in that

part of me that is human, is to be free from suffering. And then, I can finally love

my girlfriend and tell her that she’s really super important to me, and completes

me. And I can tell myself that I don’t really hate myself, that I don’t really fear my

parents and their chiding. They’re sleeping now, and it seems my anger sleeps too.

So it goes in waves, up and down, flow from here to there. It doesn’t really matter

all in all. That’s what God taught me. Things don’t matter insofar as they’re based

in changedness. They are capable of changing, of being impermanent, and thus,

worrying about them is absurd. I will no longer worry if it kills me, since I have not

been born and raised on this Earth to worry. Worrying is highly overrated. I am

tired of worrying. I am thus tired of being fearful. I am tired of being tired. My God
did not create me to suffer anymore. You know what? Suffering came about when

I began to see things in their untrue form, when my damn mind distorted them.

Truth isn’t just this lens through which I can see: it is a lens that I modify with my

perceptions and thoughts. It is thus subject to being personal and impermanent

too. The only impermanent truth is that which I don’t suffer from. And if I must

suffer from, it is only insofar as I know that suffering isn’t the intrinsic purpose of

it. I suffer to learn, not to helplessly feel hurt. I learned this the hard way, many

times over, when I tried to blame others for my problems and only received

greater suffering. And so, therefore, what is suffering but self-projection? What is

my heart but that which I find in my inner self, constituted by the meaningless

search for meaning and fulfillment?

Oh, but it’s only meaningful because I feel that way about it. Of course I am

free right now, but I must seek it and claim it first. And perhaps that’s the

beautiful, ever poetic point – that I am capable of breaking free whenever I want,

but seek to limit myself in my own mental chains. To be a prisoner to myself is the

greatest fear I have, but to dissolve it, I can only truly lay claim to myself. This

requires me to forget my pain, to love myself for what I am and not hate myself

for what I’m not, if that makes any goddamn sense. I love everything that has

brought me to this point, and I can be sure that my life, my love, have brought me
here for a coherent reason. That is the great distress, and madness, perhaps, that

comes from being a certain way. I never really found my past fulfilling, of course,

because I wanted to love so many people, try so many drugs, and yet I realized

that my inner self has ultimately gained nothing from any of these experiences. So

I’m suffering once more. I’m like a failed science experiment, a psychological

anomaly, but you know, I’m glad I ended up here in this world. I’m happy that I

can be this way and not a different way. Why would my self be given to me

otherwise? I was born this way. I am not afraid of myself. I am only afraid of

forgetting what was meant for me from birth. But I am not allowed to be afraid

when I know that I deserve this as much as any other human. That’s the great

privilege of Being. I was given this by God. And he loves me so. And he loves me

so much… goddamn it, I want to love myself the way God loves me. That’s not a

fear, that’s just a rational desire. I hope I can fulfill it someday.

I don’t deserve to suffer anymore. I really have decided this. I am a fucked

up person, yes, and I deserve to suffer in a lot of ways, but I will no longer feel

guilty, entrenched in that aspect of me called ‘self-hatred’, which has kept me

stuck in myself for so long. I am not willing to suffer any longer. Fuck this. I have

been free all this time and what do I tell myself? To fear even more? I will fear no

evil and speak no evil! I have never met face to face with true evil anyway, none
but that which resides in my own self. And I will embrace that part of me that

dissolves evil, and I will listen to it, and the fears will leave me forever, since they

were never there in the first place. The fears were only there when I encouraged

them, when I let them linger in me as though they were inextricable. Maybe I only

remember that doctor because I fear him in the first place, but hey, what the fuck

do I have to lose anyway? I don’t exist and neither does he, and therefore I’m free.

I love my life, damn it. I love my soul. I love that which creates from me, which

efficaciously attaches itself, like effluence of the self, and makes things real again

and again. That’s the only attachment, I think which truly amounts to anything.

And you know what? I have no attachment but this. All other attachments have

been enforced by the fears in me, by the part that thinks there’s something to live

for. I’m done with that. To hell with suffering. I have been a patient of my own

mind for many years, but it’s time to seek a therapist. God? Hello. I wish to ask for

your help. May I heal myself from this suffering? May I finally be free? I am

human, you must know, but I have your essence within me too. So I shall listen to

you, and be your vessel, and I will be free forever.

I hope I won’t be buried alone.

Yes, my fears have brought me far. And yes, to
fear is to be in great pain and dependency on
something that seeks to control me. But I will
never be controlled by that which never existed
in the first place. My fear is illusory. I am free.

And did you know that

what is also isn’t, and
what was never will be?
So there is nothing.