duppy conqueror

I ask questions as my main conversational tactic (often forgetting to listen/care about the response).
One of my favorite questions is some variation of "would you rather be deaf or blind?" "Would you rather lose your mind or your body?"
I had no answer, I was just doing the asking.  Now my answer is ha ha! You will lose them all.

I am obsessed with death, currently. (Because my new favorite band is lo-fi alternative goth? -> His Name is Alive; I've listened to Home is in Your Head at least ten times in the last three days.) I have had many phases of strong morbidity, beginning when I was a little kid.  I feel then what I feel now: basically terror (sometimes), confusion, and resistance, even though I'm not "actively" dying.
I wonder what it would be like to work with the dying.  I listened to a podcast from a hospice home, where people waste away slowly.  The residents are "sick of being sick", tired of the imposition of being weak. Some die without acceptance of the fact that they're dying.  The nurses were deeply compassionate but direct - when someone was dying they didn't break it to their family in a way that there could be any doubt or hope.  Probably directness is more compassionate in many situations.  I shouldn't have listened to the podcast twice but I felt like I had to.  Not to be obsessed with unnecessary pain, but because the experience is something I feel like I have to handle, something I can survive, ironically enough.

I hate being on drugs.  Another experience to survive.  I hate being high because I hate feeling my brain be hijacked and persuaded. (PMS is equally as infuriating, since it controls my moods (read: perception of the world) no matter how I deny its existence and I can't fight it.)  But every once in a while I find myself under some influence (due to some amnesia of my serious discomfort) and find myself therefore in an experience to endure.  And while I'm up there having my world blown open to new understanding and new perspective, I realize that my put-together little sober life is, of course, a crazy trip in itself.  It's exhausting and sometimes I see terrifying things - the most terrifying (or in my better moods, humbling) thing I realize is how limited my entire world is (and how soon I'll forget.  Maybe not intellectually, but viscerally I have already forgotten).  As a metaphor: the spectrum of visual colors for the human being is a rather tiny slice of all waves of light, and there are even colors in the gradient between colors too fine for us to distinguish.  In short, our visual spectrum is what is useful on earth for our living habits.  (Thanks radiolab!) How could my brain, which has undoubtedly evolved in the same capacity, comprehend something as colorless as God or meaning?  What I am trying to say I guess is drugs made me believe in God and I hate drugs and always we're resistant to being stretched, but can survive it.

Well I had a day of terror, not helped by the season two premiere of twin peaks.  My own Duppy Conqueror tucked me into bed and kissed my little head and I didn't have a single nightmare.  I didn't think about how terrified I am to ride my bike (traffic! pain!), which I did this morning, or how dreadfully afraid I am to ride in cars (accidents D-:   D-: ) even though I'm getting in one for a long haul this afternoon.  Sometimes I can't wait to die so I can have my brain blown open, but I definitely couldn't now without screaming resistance.