The Cannibalism

I’m a hypochondriac. Not in that preposterous, ‘Am I dying’  caricatured way. It’s more insidious than that.  It’s eating a sandwich and wondering if it’s going to make me sick as I’m chewing, and yet, continuing to eat it. Its feeling stressed that stress will affect my health. It’s concern over concern. I feel uneasy about feeling unwell.

It’s self-indulgent, this cannibalistic concept of self. Tracking my own suffering, tracking the thoughts. It’s also self-destructive. I see that, and yet I can’t stop. There’s something so empowering about assessing sickness. Apart from the condition itself, it’s quite enjoyable.

What’s confusing is that it is hard to discern reality in that space between physical sickness and mere emotional suffering.

The question, “Am I not at my sharpest?” is an example of this type of tragic confusion. Questioning my own effectiveness is a pursuit doomed from the start. I can never be truly ‘present’ when I’m thinking about how present I actually am. So, with each passing moment, commitment seems a more gruelling undertaking then it need be, for I fail to commit to anything but the stressy thoughts themselves. ‘Peace’ and ‘Contentment’ become allusive, and I become tragic.

‘There’s nothing to fear but fear itself’ I suppose. Yet the fear is itself a pretty scary thing. It’s so debilitating and seductive. With little new content, the brain-machine constructs content from contemplaton, i.e. “that’s a good thought, I should write that down, will I write it in the right sequence, aaaaaaaagghhhh! NOTEPAD QUICKLY BEFORE IT’S NOT AS SHARP! Should I set this aside? Am I just hoarding thoughts now? Should I blog about something more general? Is this too much thinking?” It’s self-sabotage in the most personal way, as these are my thoughts, so only I can stop them. Yet, there is a satan inside who, for complicated reasons, might not want to stop them.

For there is something to show for this wanky strangeness. Perhaps that’s why I stick with it. Something complicated and contradictory is produced by this macarbre concentration.  Thinking about my thinking seems to pays off in those periods after waking and before the day has started, the dazed, satisfied fulfillment of accomplishment, no matter how perverse the effort was. “I thought so much”, “I came so far”, “stronger now, I can face things now, having faced that”

Getting one’s own sweet self off of one’s mind, thinking about others, thinking on scriptures, truth, positive oustide content. Then, only then,  everything changes, I can become truly productive and let the subconscious pick at the particulars.

The exertion of using the conscious mind for thought processing, when it’s supposed to be used for the practical stuff . Is the pay-off  for all that thinking worth the exertion?

Think about it.

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