Get out of here in a hurry, before this whole thing explodes! What whole thing? was she feeling the heat? I was still taking risperidone, so I wasn’t feeling the heat much at all. But I’d had a couple bowel movements—nothing major, but enough to keep me from turning to bisacodyl. A lot of constipated material, so, naturally, rather than deal with a toilet that I knew would clog, I was digging it out again, putting it into a plastic bag, and dumping it in the yard. Hardly an ideal situation—but I needed a doctor’s assistance to get off the risperidone because I’d have to replace it with something else, and, on top of that, I needed something that was going to keep me sleeping correctly, and thinking healthy, noncompromising thoughts (as much as possible).
Now, what was I seeing and what did it mean? I was seeing Ursula speaking to people with a fellow politician—and i was seeing a nose with a nosebleed coming out of blond hair on a young woman with red shadows on her face—yesterday’s painting. A bloody nose, for me, meant a harrowing day and night when I was on my own and taking lots of aspirin and alcohol at the same time. So my nose wouldn’t stop bleeding. It got kind of scary for a little bit, but, I figured, as I often did, when I was in that way, that I was protected by them, or the people that spied on me, since, according to them, I was too important to leave unattended, and, therefore, I assumed they’d intervene if I was in serious danger. That kind of thinking might’ve led to a little risk taking that was, of course, a little dangerous.
But what changes, now, were taking place? I’d decided that, in order to improve my chances of getting views on social media, to stop writing my website at the bottom of my posts, which I’d continued to do, stubbornly, even after, some time ago, I’d read that your posts can get deprioritized if you do that. But, especially on Instagram, I wasn’t getting many views—and I wanted to get more, even if it meant nobody would click on my website, or they’d be much less likely too, anyhow. I’ll focus on the present once i finish dealing with the past kudos, then, to me. but, of course, I was seeing Ursula’s picture—she seemed very confident in herself, as if she was going somewhere, and she knew it, at least a little. But was she really going somewhere? And how would that change my relationship with her? I loved what she was doing for our country as much as I loved her: the two things could not be separated, just as, well, if you loved both Elvis and his music, you couldn’t love one or the other—they were one unit.
But my songs! Ah, my songs! they were not about inner peace—the narrator had experience with the dark side, more so than, in hearing my songs, i realized. But that made sense, of course, considering I’d been hospitalized a couple times—and was kept over night in the emergency room on another occasion. I couldn’t help it, since, as I now understand, it is very important for me to dedicate myself to an afterlife—that’s always on the backburner, and, I suppose it always has been, which is probably why it rose up against me, and forced me into a panic when others, who could function without dedicating themselves to an afterlife, wouldn’t have gone into a panic—there was nothing in them to rise up in protest. Part of me wonders if people like that really exist—if people that don’t believe don’t exist in the eternal scheme of things, since, it seems to me, sometimes, that getting into heaven started happening around the time that humans started believing in things. That, around the time we started believing was around the time we started going to heaven—or some angle of it.
Now, I don’t know why, of late, but my default narrator, the one i relied on when doing math, was getting more and more airtime—and all my telepathic peers were being kept on low heat, simmering. The conversations I was having, therefore, were mostly with myself—when He could reach me, that is, before boredom allowed the bad thoughts to do their best to be acknowledged. You’re not even going to acknowledge me? So did Ursula feel that i was ignoring her? I certainly hoped not. But maybe, in a way, i was. I’d basically broadcasted my love for her, which meant that people knew what I was writing about when I was writing, so I had to keep the world of improbable communications more to myself—or I’d set myself up for disaster, and people would be worried about me—or, if not worried, well, sure to reject me before I could prove to them, or anyone, the things that I wanted to prove.
Now what? Part of me was saying: go record another song—but it was still such an ordeal, taking as much as an hour or an even two hours to sing it and post it, not to mention a certain frame of mind, one that was keen to speak out loud, that is, that, well, I was thinking that I would put it off. But that was exactly what my wine uncle was trying to get me avoid, I think—we wanted, if we could, to post songs much more often—an impressive amount, than other people could accept. Then we’d win their respect, at least a little, even if they did not favor our shadow-like style. But yeah, it was almost as if things were moving a little too fast to properly project Ursula’s voice, or even my voice, the updated one I’d gathered from recording myself. Was that because I’d accepted my heterosexuality—and, in describing myself as queer, basically given the finger to anybody that would gossip about whether or not I was secretly gay? I think that might’ve had something to do with it—and there was a certain confidence that went along with producing up to two paintings a day for the last week and a half or so—putting myself on track to become somebody, a real somebody, and, in getting on track, some of that confidence was getting through—granted, of course, a little doubt to keep me honest, since I had no guarantees, and, well, it was important to remain humble—considering that it was still impossible to say if I’d be recognized in the afterlife—in part, I think, for dedicating myself in full to this one.