Waking up.

Awake. Or not entirely. I’m still lost between both state, asleep – and no, it does not imply dreams for I do not remember them – and awake. Somewhere something is ringing to try to awake me.

I’m craving. Craving of data. I need to chck what happened for those hours I was asleep. I’ll skip breakfast. I can’t make them at my place anyway for I have nothing to prepare them. I do not even have something o brew caffein out of beans.

I’ll be late, but I have to feed on the data feeds. IRC. Mails. XMPP. Twitter. I’ll go through all of them before being awake. That’s how my processor will be booted up. And it’s not pretty, witnessing massacre or picture of dismembered bodies is something regular.

I used to think I’ll never get used to it. That the horror will still starts something into my guts that would makes me puke, but no. Not anymore. I do not feel anything when seeing those.

I’ll go across a stranger’s face while looking in a mirror. An alien face. Someon people saw on TV or elsewhere. I know it’s me because I do remember doing those tats and this non-consistent hair cut. But I do not recognise me. And yes, if you wonder, I may have trouble finding me in a picture.

This whole body is mine but alien to me. Not that I hate it. It’s just alien. Foreign. I’m not used to it and I do not remembr everything that happened to it.

I’ll survive my bike ride through my city to get at work. Processing a lot of data to avoid being hit by other more or less defined objects on the road. It happened once, but besides a lot of pain and some bruises, I survived.

At work I’ll be going from log analysis, to data strealm analysis, to behavioral anaylisys. I’ll eat a lot of horrible event without them hurting me. Not anymore.

It used to horrify me. Witnessing mass murdering, systematic anihilation of mankind. Now I just soak it. I’m not able to soak the help desk though, and it generally makes me angry. And causes a lot of stress.

Scar tissue

I’ve never been good at expressing feeling. Or at feel for what it worth. It’s getting hardr those day. While working here, I’ve done – at least – one burn out in less than three month. I’ve been through way to much riot, massacre, arbitrary arrest and video or picture of those than I can recall.

All of those wounds have healed. My mind is patched by so much scar tissue that it is mostly scar tissue. I have less and less emotionnal bandwidth. I can’t stop eating data or my mind will enter an endless loop of morbid thought.

I tried different hacks to stop that. But none of them works. I’ve hit wall until my hand is broke. I’ve drunk too much. Way too much. Friend of mine once told me "Addiction starts where feeling stops." Feeling stopped a while ago, not the flow of alcohol. I’ve tried being to exhausted to be able to think. It does not works either.

Now I’m eating data. Analysing them. Trying to makes sense of it, and talk about it with people. Friends. I spend most of my wake time to do that. I’m more and more like a computer, a machine. A sentient one, but a machine.

Reading. Analysing. Forwarding. Loop over it. Endlessly.

The more the days go, the more I’m turning into that. I do not eat healthy food. I’m stuck in bugged routine. I’m not enjoying doing stuff as much as I used to. My life is now, mostly, data consumption and anlysis.

No more emotionnal bandwidth makes me itchy. I fail at perceive irony and humor most of the time. I’m entering each and every battle without self-preservation. I know what emotional pain and distress is. It can’t hurt me now.

And yes, I’m falling. The saying is "hitting the bottom", except there’s no bottom. Only dark and infinite abyss.

Mechanisation of my brain and alienation of my body are survival mechanism. A machine can’t feel. A machine can’t be hurted. So I’ll do it. Again. I’ll be that guy with a strange haircut, with some strongopinion on a lot of things, that’ll do the show into the media. Show must go on. And at least, it’s something consistent.

Dancing through my tears

Sometime, a buffer overflow occurs. A crisis. Generally triggered by something benign – for instance the loud bass of the opening of a concert. And I burst into tears. No idea why, it just happens.

I tend to think that’s yet another survival mechanisms. And I’ll dance through it. I’ll dance on my wrecked self. There’s nothing left of me. Nothing to be rejoiced about me. When I look back I have nothing happy. My father stoled my few happy childhood memories.

I manage to grew without leaving trace around me, without leaving anything that someone would use to hurt me.

The last ten years where a bit better, but I’m not able to see happiness in them. – not that I was not just that I’m not able to see it. I’ve been part of things other finds amazing, but it killed me.

What has been seen cannot be unseen they said. And it’s true. When my mind wanders I’ll always go back to the thing I indirectly witnessed the past three years.

But this is a lie. All of this is. I feel. I do feel the pain. I’ll leave conversation because someone hit me with a knife – a metaphorical one. And I’ll choke on it for two days, keeping me awake, trying to process the data. Trying to understand why it hurts so much. Discovering new area where I still feel. New fights to get involved into.

Love and Rage

I want to crush skulls. To hits things with my bare hands. To let the rage I feel going away with the pain. Last time it happens it was in a concert, it felt good. My head was empty and fuck, didn’t happened in a while. It last for few hours, but yes. It was good.

I miss those area in my life where I can let go. Now, even the street are space where people expect me to conform myself to something I’m not really. I need to find space for that.

It became harder to open myself to people. And the paradox is that I want to spare people I love and who loves me, and that’s how I killed my previous relationshisp, by shielding myself, by not talking about me because it’s fucking scary.

I should take care or me. I should accept this alien body, this alien me. I just have no idea of how to do that. I should listen atthe people who gave me advices. But they do not work. I’m not able to keep my brain down, or I’ll be surrounded by ghosts and morbidity.

I’m only able to love, that’s what’s left of me. That’s what I more or less kept to myself. Everything else is linked to thing I have no control over.