Control?

There are so many instances currently where I've come to realise I have no control of anything and this is truly terrifying!

...

Yesterday I was in such turmoil so I didn't leave bed, except to hastily rejoin the bustle of yet another automatic check-out. "Thank you for shopping at Morrisons" says the unvarying voice: a voice dispassionate. Where is the choice of not shopping in a shop? Where would I get sustenance from other than there? Grow my own? Oh yeah I, one of the dispossessed, growing my own food. Farmers grow our food, but see us as invaders on "their" land. Animal husbandry or horticulture are roles fulfilled as part of a community. Without consumers consuming farming would wither and die on the branch. There is no community: there is only division.

The Ego has driven us selfish and lusting, greedy and deprived, and this is in all directions and all ways. It is essential to "growth" of the human cancer: exploding upon the Earth which inevitably will shake off this distress when the balance is tipped beyond redress. And we are worried about plastic? The long line of humanities arrogance is beyond sight. We know no restraint, but infest and corrupt the only Eden that ever was.

...

A little thing which I am unable to control are my relationships with people. By being alone I don't lie, because I feel 99% of relationships are untrue, yet I can't stop the constant nothingness people murmur to one another.

Isolated I am, but beer I like. Not beer alone watching the Telly, but a beer where I might meet one person on my level and true to the core of their being?

There I sit, day after day, slowly pickling my existence and wasting my body and mind, waiting to find a way beyond the isolation (which I can't control) except by being totally another person: a faker. What is wrong with my reality?

My mother thinks if I was just like her I'd be happier! Living a life trapped inside four walls and a garden fence. Afraid to go beyond her field of vision. Looking at everything she is told by the BBC as absolutely true. Unadventurous.

Gardening is so fake. Such a veneer. Those plants you beautify your garden with are deceiving people into thinking your life is pleasant: I think you hide your head in your garden because you are afraid. Afraid of being out of control of the world you could see. She's lonely, but she never mixes except with a couple of Thursday friends and one she travels with away, who she complains about wickedly because she's fat, greedy, etc, etc.

These aren't bad people are they? Suddenly I am not so sure. Rather than help me years ago, as a child, she ignored it and pretended it was OK. She was always afraid of the stigma. Now she feels unhappy because I am frank about life. She hides from me in plain sight. TV on, Radio on, Ironing board on, hoarding clothes - washed and pressed - enough to fill a moths mouth for years to come.

The reason we took to wearing clothes is because we were shocked at the reality of our nakedness: it meant nothing. We covered up in an attempt to make it seem elusive and special when really we are not bodies, but incomplete beings. My mother is incomplete.

I am falling down further and further. This thing I see - this life - it's hopelessly tyrannical and vengeful. People are full of hate. So many people hate me. And I have never hurt anyone.

People see this thing I just did and say "well done" or brilliant, or you're so brave - especially in this rain - but I've been doing this for six years long. Everywhere people stop and stare because I'm walking to find a thing I can control. The moment to moment full awareness of all sight and sound, smells and sensations, living right now.

Not for Charity. Mind never helped me. In fact it made me feel even more helpless sat as I was in peer group support feeling zero affinity to these other people's problems. For they are all unique. We are all one, but all uniquely blunted to oneness in our unique mess.

Perhaps I lack empathy for others, yet I also lack care for myself. The "mind" punishes me because it despises me. It wants me imprisoned, it wants me sectioned, it wants me sedated, it wants me dead.

This could get quite deep ... Deeper? Unpacked. Unzipped. Laid bare. The boxes contents are already spilled on the soil. It is impossible to get them back together. They were so badly clumped together in the beginning. Always incomplete and unfunctional, fractional and fractal. Endless and relentless.
...

Someone stirs above. It's mother who will turn on the TV as the second act in her day. And it will be the final act tonight too. My father had this problem too, but his nicotine, sugar and sex addition were on top of this. God I hurt so much!
...
There is no peace in any of this.