What’s normal mean any more?


Don’t believe the hype.

‘Normal’ is just a comfort word.


Sooooo…. I just spent the last hour reading through a self confessed sociopath’s blog.  Funny thing is,  I enjoyed it a lot more than supposed ‘normal’  peoples blogs.

Here’s the conundrum. Have we been that toned down and numbed to the point of complete insensitivity and mindlessness that we now normalise our drone like behaviour to the point where anything that might resemble a little ripple in our otherwise lifeless ponds is considered abnormal?

Do you know what happens to stagnant water?

It becomes impure. You can’t drink it, you can’t purify yourself with it.

Stagnant bodies become weak and sickly. Unable to self heal.

I think stagnant minds are worse.

You should feel ashamed if you don’t push your mind to the brink of madness, hell go mad,  even better, if there is such a limit…. if there is such a limit.

I’ve written about supposed mental illnesses as ordained by the predatory elite that is the REAL evil of psychiatry.

Their concoctions are illusions, manipulations of words sold hook, line and sinker to limit the brilliance of human achievement.

There are notables in history that we would have limited our privilege had we not had them around or had they believed the hype and thought that they were abnormal.

Think of any artist, musician, poet, writer, inventor, ruler or leader and you will find repeatable patterns; ‘normal’ people thought they were mad. Give me the violence of a raging river or turbulent sea and keep your ponds. Fuck Normal!


Introversion – eight


Schizophrenia is a man made lie
to convince people who have no inner
life that they are the normal ones.

Must we? Really?
Lie to each other about the void you live with dear psychiatrist?

You sit comfortably with your glasses on the tip of your nose, turtle neck woollens, a leg over the other in an office that smells of retired leather, and books that scream, please read me but are sealed with the glue of dust.

Your pad is in your hand with your Mont Blanc Biro. Your voice as empty as you are, you cannot be any more cliché. You prattle your regurgitated lines, spoken in monotone, seriously, like you just received divine inspiration. Oh you’re an actor! I can sniff you out a mile away.

You live by three letters. D.S.M. You have no life other than prattling the make believe that this book has come to be.  If the D.S.M. says it, then it is true and with the same breath you have a label for people who believe in holy books and follow religion.

No, it is you that is abnormal, carefully constructing a fake life to be able to pretend others that have an inner life are abnormal.

You’ve abused yourself for so long through superficialities that you no longer hear your inner voice, you only hear the voices of approval as you minecraft your life to their acceptances and add to the tally other peoples lives whom you can’t stand being more interesting.

Footnote: I am not kidding, the D.S.M. is one of the most cleverly concocted lies known to our lifetime. Dr Abram Hoffer proved for over forty years that Schizophrenia is not a mental condition, disease or any other label. With nothing more than very high loads of vitamins and minerals, but they don’t make money, don’t sound as exotic and don’t fill the void of peoples lives who have been convinced that they are abnormal and ironically need an equally abnormal treatment method that doesn’t work.

Cluttered mind


They told me, go for a walk, get some shut eye, clear your mind.
What would they know? Mindless drivel at it’s best because what they don’t realise is, I don’t want my mind cleared.

No, I’m quite happy lingering in these thoughts, sifting through the web of confusion, the echoes of pain that percuss off the valleys and mountains of my soul, haunting it with a northerly wind carrying the scent of uncertainty, through rocks, rustling restless leaves until they settle on the garden beds of meadows and compost into the soil of my heart.

I’ll sit right here in this corner, away enough for you to not be the piece of furniture in your way, quite content to have these thoughts punishing me, rummaging through my being enticing every cell of my body to engage in recreating memories or forging the future.

What you don’t realise is that clearing your mind is emptying your soul of substance.

Pain is there to help you grow.

Confusion is there to help you figure things out, to allow your brain to exercise.

Sadness is there so you may elate in the joy and know it’s value when it hits you in the front teeth, lest you remain an ingrate.

The voices are there not because you’re a schizophrenic, but because they’re meant to keep you company and offer you another perspective to the one you harbour in your heart, be it at the opposite end of the spectrum or merely a few inches away from where your thoughts currently reside, still you need something off course to correct your path and purify it.

Anger is there to keep you on your toes, alert so you never sway from clarity of purpose.

Whatever it is, don’t be a numb and mindless drone, subservient to the commands of the mundane. Ride the edge of your character and crack its whip until your fingers bleed or your mind annihilates.