Soundtrack to a Schizophrenic Mind :: Psychology Loneliness Essays

Soundtrack to a Schizophrenic Mind The and pack for me are the sickish ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous color roman candles exploding like spiders across the sky. Jack Kerouac On the Road chamfer 1 Ryan A dkms Back beat the word is on the street that the blow in your shopping centre is out...Next door and two flights up an extraterrestrial being woman sings scales, melancholic and operatic, ghostlike, she vocalizes the sorrows that haunt me. Music has always been my salvation. A skin perceptiveness rolls in, filling the empty vibration of my atmosphere. Rain, softly at first, then steadily. The humankind weeps. It feels like God mocks me, showing off by crying when I cant. In retrospect, maybe he was empathizing, like a parent trail by example, gently nudging me to follow suit. But presently, I am bitter, tota lly incapable of seeing optimistically. Perception is inseparable from state of mind.There is a huge difference between being alone and feeling lonely. The author is bearable, even enjoyable, when a person is actually physically alone. The latter, being adjoin by the people who care, yet separated by an invisible distance, a magnetic charge of pride and insecurity, repelling love despite secretiveness of its proximity and the friendliest of intentions, tortures the soul. In Thailand, halfway across the world, I missed the people I love, but in a happy nostalgic way. whole yet never lonely. Home again, I see them every day, smiling at them, converse with them, yet can non connect psychically. There is no heart in my friendships here. Surrounded by the people I once missed, I feel only empty.58 moonstones arranged on links of tarnished silvern wrap loosely around my bony fingers. I am not catholic, or even Christian, but on this night I dislocate my fingertips over the smooth r osary beads. Drowning. Sometimes it is just so plaguey to be alive. Screams, trapped with the tears somewhere inside, build a dam of hopelessness and frustration to protect society from the unsightly emotions anger, sadness, grief. Freud called it melancholy bolshy unmourned. Modern society calls it depression, apparently a phenomenon common amongst students returning from blanket(a) travels in developing countries. Youll readjust in a month or so, they consoled me.