Madman's Journey

"When the mind is dumb, the body suffers," said my janitor co-worker to me in Swedish. That is true.

Some years ago, I studided English at a university. I had decent grades and an excellent vocabulary. I only survived a few months before a mental illness took over. Nowadays it feels like my prime is gone. Like when I am trying to learn new things I can not do it. Getting new knowledge is like punching my meaty fists against a concrete wall.

I feel stupid. I feel as though it is very hard to learn and adapt to new writing rules. Research might as well be that concrete wall.

Perhaps my goals are unrealistic compared to my abilities? I want to be a successful storyteller with an audience.

Mind you, I am a stubborn bastard, so I will never give up writing. But sometimes it feels like an exercise in futility. But then again, I feel like I would be wasting my life if I did something more my level. I also have other plans than writing, I want to create an organisation that heals minds, I want to create a clothing brand, and I want to bring on a new renaissance. Small plans, I know.

Perhaps I am wasting my life at this attempt at success, but so what? People die every second for stupid reasons all over the world. Why can't I spend my life at something as futile as trying to become a good storyteller? Why should I do things more my level, even if that might be better for me and my body?

Nah, my mind is dumb, and my body can take it, for now.

My fictional universe is science fiction with a blend of fantasy. Immortals, dragons, gods, intricate architecture, billion year old civilisations spanning multiple galaxies, various alien species, and humans.

I'm soon done with the fourth draft of my first book. Just two more chapters. It's still only around 65 000 words, so I need to get creative and add more scenes. It is very problematic that the main character's love interest only has around ten lines or somewhere around that in the entire book.

I have been developing a short story series called Kalahastian, that I will upload and recite on Youtube, very excited to see what people may think of it. The series is planned as of now to be endless, or at least until my own death. I will continue to work on it until I can not.

Living matter is prevalent throughout my fictional universe. It is what most buildings and such are made of, it can change shape and colour. Imagine a large hall with marble-like pillars and slow-moving frescoes. Padded decorated curved chairs in front of every pillar. Painted statues of various humans in different interactions between the pillars, also moving slowly. Painted vases besides the statues. On a celebrative day, the colours will be vibrant in the hall, on a solemn day they will be darker. Ever changing, ever moving. Like its parent civilisation.

Sometimes it feels like my mind is slipping. Too many universes to keep track of. Or perhaps my psychosis sickness is making itself heard... not literally. I just feel so stupid at times. Like my mind is really decaying.

I recently comissioned two artists for illustrations outside their expertise. It only occurred to me to search for the right artists after I had comissioned the first two. What the hell, mind? What the hell is going on? Years ago, I would not have made that mistake.

I seem to keep making mistakes and errors of the mind. Forgetting things, missing to implement characters in my main book, forgetting how to spell or write properly, etc.

But I still have hope, hope to someday reach an audience with my fictional writing. Hope that people will enjoy traveling to my worlds.

Every day or so I have to fight against my own hatred. I was attacked and beaten at night in a park years ago, really, years, and years ago. I should be over it. Yet my hatred still remains. And I have violent thoughts of vengeance. I never reported the attack to the police, which was a major mistake. Not just for my own sake, but for the sake of others.

So now here I am, deep in my own dark thoughts, where I do everything imaginable to the perpetrators. Such is vengeance. It is not productive. It is not even justice. In my fantasy, I feel as though I am in power over the perpetrators, and it feels good for a moment. A fake vengeance.

In reality, such a violent revenge would just ruin lives. I also happen to believe firmly in the potential of humans to change for the better. Besides, it was partially the attack that got me into writing. I've always enjoyed telling stories, but the attack "kickstarted" me into actually writing things down to clear my mind.

A whole heap of things have happened to me, cancer, schizophrenia, losing loved ones, but out of all, I feel the greatest amount of powerlessness, fear and anger when it comes to the attack. The other horrors are not to be dismissed, of course, but there is something about being beaten down by strangers, to have your life regarded as of little value by two other sentient beings. Something that scratches a certain itch in the brain. Something that won't go away.

Maybe I will never get rid of this hatred? Perhaps I will need to do battle with myself and my darker thoughts for the rest of my life?

I have now written to completion draft one of my first ever book. At sixty four thousand words (around 106 A4 pages) it sits ready for extensive edits, which is the next part of the process.

It has taken me more than ten years to refine the world and around three years of writing the current draft. Though the end result lacks my contentment, I am confident that I will improve the work to the best of my ability.

The story is about a grey skinned human who grows up in the slums of a city planet, he is arrested for a crime and sentenced to military service.
It is a big world with many galaxies and variations of humans and aliens alike. It will be a story about love, war, and power.

To have come this far in the process makes me very happy.

Cheers!

I don't have the greatest memory, so people sometimes have to remind me of the past. Sometimes they tell me what I've done and I feel ashamed. I sometimes wish I could time travel and take back or undo certain events. Especially the way I treated my brother when we grew up.

It can be small things too, that I am ashamed of, such as how I responded to someone on a forum when I was of a younger age, or heck as an adult as well.

But you can not change the past, you can only interfere with the now to help form the future. With that in mind, I'm pretty confident that I will make more mistakes.

I regret not standing my ground during violent situations more than I have in my life, then maybe I would have less anger inside me? Or perhaps I would be in a coffin? It's easy to say what I should have done in hindsight.

I recall, now, a moment when my best buddy was fighting an older friend of mine. The older friend, who I did not like, had my buddy pinned against the ground. My buddy yelled for my help. I could have done it, I could have charged and pushed my older friend off, but did not. Everything sorted itself, it was just an altercation between children, but I still feel as though I let my best buddy down.

Then there are more dangerous events far removed from childhood days, and more towards bad hood days. I was walking home from that previous best buddy I mentioned and got attacked by muggers. At that time, I was the kind who carried a knife around on me. They had stopped me a while before the attack and asked what time it was. That's to make me to pull up my mobile phone, so they could snatch it. I knew what they were trying to do, so I told them the approximate time and continued walking. I noticed that they were following me, so I pulled out my knife, out of their sight, and pondered going into a waste station area to ambush them. By this time I thought my heart would jump out of my fucking chest. As I continued on the sidewalk, a cab came driving on the road, blinding my eyes with its headlights, and it was as though the light of a higher being had reached my mind. I quickly put the knife into my pocket again, walked past the waste area and towards the park that was up ahead. Halfway on the road through the park I hear one of them telling me to wait up. It was as though time was sped up at that moment, because I can not remember having the time to think of running. Next, someone grabs my jacket collar and I am turned around only to see a fist coming my way. Then darkness for a split second, before realising I'm on my knees and on the receiving end of punches and kicks. I somehow manage to raise myself up through the barrage and shove them back. One of them yells at me to run, not to help me out, but to humiliate me, he yelled with excitement in his tone. I ran like I've never done before. I did not look back, I just focused on running, not knowing if they had a pistol and was going to shoot me in the back. And I got away.

I never reported that event to the police. Something I also regret, because I read in the newspaper that someone else became their victim some days later. It was likely the same guys, because I don't live in a large city.

That event led me down a dark path filled with anger and hatred. Sometimes I wish I had tried my luck ambushing them, but that would perhaps have been my last action in life. Either way, I am alive for now, and I should be grateful for that.

My anger I can still control. Oh, and my brother and I have a pretty good relationship these days.

There are times when my heart moves to a vicious cycle, beating hot dark blood through my veins. Times especially when those who think to be important because of their status in society tell others what to think and feel, what is morally right or wrong. The judges in media. The high halls of the elite. The court of the popular.
What they fail to realise is that some of us do not care for their gesturing. Some of us regard their talk as self-righteous moralizing.

If I were to be judged by my thoughts, actions, and ambitions, I would not be a good man according to these high status people. I am in breach of their ambiguous morality. Morality that seems to shape-shift according to their own needs.

There seems to be a shooting once a day here in Sweden now. I and many others are becoming desensitized about the all the death and shootings.

It's mostly gangs killing other gangs, but once in a while innocent people get shot too. Like a young girl who was shot dead while out with her dog. Some say she shouldn't have been out late at night, I say who cares? She should be able to go out any damn time she wants and not get shot because of a gang conflict. Besides, who knows, maybe her dog needed to go out at that time? Either way, she has every right to move about in her society any way she pleases without getting shot at.

I am tired and I want change. I have a few ideas on how to fix the criminal problem and some of those ideas are non-lethal.

I do wonder about the individuals who pick a career as a criminal, what in the world is in their minds? They live in Sweden, where you have very good social security, there shouldn't be a need for crime. But I've seen the type, in their rap videos showing off weapons and cursing like they recently learned how to speak. There seems to be some romantic idea about being a gangster, that it's cool and you'll get rich... but in the end they're just a pest that nobody sane likes.

There has even been a tv series made about the whole thing, further romanticising it.

I believe the gangsters are a part of the reason the far right is winning ground in Sweden. They will be their own undoing if they keep it up.

This blog post is as much of a question as it is a statement.

How many of you, dear readers, know the names of at least three Nazis?
And how many of you know the names of at least three people put to death by the Nazis?
Right from your head, without using any search engine.

Since this is a writer's forum, some people may actually know a lot of names on both sides. But I imagine the masses do not.
I personally, without using a search engine, know the names of Goebbels, Hitler, and Himmler. And only Anne Frank. I have seen documentaries, been to school, read articles. Yet only Anne Frank is the name repeated enough to get stuck in my head. But on the side of the monsters, a whopping three names got stuck in my head due to repetition.

What does that say about me? Or perhaps about our society? That we favor giving perpetrators and monsters publicity? This is nothing new. But it isn't brought up often enough.

Victims is a common word for those who suffer at the hands of perpetrators and monsters. But victim is a word that resonates with helplessness and disempowerment. We should call them martyrs, for that is what they are in my opinion. They are martyrs for a free world. Martyrs who helped make the world more conscious and aware, even in their namelessness.

I wish media would focus more on the martyrs of this world, and not give perpetrators the fame they seek.

What do you think?

And I'm okay with that.

Even though I'm only a little bit more than halfway finished, I think this first draft is looking rather ugly. But I know I am going to work on it. Edit, rewrite, rethink. Characters will have their personalities warped before my eyes. Settings will transition from boring and dead to alive. Things will be stripped away, and others added.

It takes time to make something good when you yourself is not as good as the product you wish to make. Or am I striving for an impossible task? I am after all writing in English, which is not my native language.

This is going to be a series, so the first book will in a way define the rest. That is why I must let it take its time. Get it right from the start.

I'm also in love with my work, it may be my greatest achievement, which might be big for me, but small for others. It does not matter, what matters is that I have a goal. Even though I said before that it is looking ugly, I can also see the beauty of it. I can envision the world, the architecture, the landscapes, the planets, the people, their clothing, all the extravagant beauty and all the ugly. For without the ugly, one may not be able to appreciate the beauty. They go hand in hand.

Anyone else in love with their work? Or do you keep a callous distance to your marketable product?

I have seventeen chapters in my outline and I just got started on the eight chapter in the actual book. I am at around twenty six thousand words, so I fear the first draft might be the size of a novella. Will be a lot to put in and add to make it a fully fledged book. Or perhaps the coming chapters will be many times fatter than the previous I have written? Will see.

Anyhow, I am happy to be where I am after years of world building and bits of writing. I have dedicated a good portion of my life to this project and I do not regret it, it is my dream work.

It is hard to remember how to write properly sometimes. I have even felt as though I have regressed when it comes to my writing skills. Or perhaps that is because I have learned so much that I know how terrible I am? I often feel like I am a better story teller than I am a writer.

Another couple of chapters to go! Time to write!

In my mind I have visions of great cities built in antique classical style with modern elements. I have the vision of uniting people of different extremes by having them work together and accomplish goals together. I have visions of clothes and hats with various extravagant patterns and different colours.

I may not be able to realise these things in our world, but I will realise them on paper in my fictional universe.

There, in my universe, you can be born in the slums and rise to wear extravagant clothes in a palace of your own if you are capable enough. You can have tea with aliens in their architecturally styled palaces. You can go on a safari to see various beasts across the stars. You can go from one point in the universe to another in the blink of an eye, you just need to know where you want to go!

It is a world of many worlds, inspired by our ancient worlds. And I want to create it all. I see so much of it everyday inside my head. It yells at me to be released. It hounds me. I must tell the story of my characters in their space adventure. I must not fail them. They must be heard of in our world, at least by someone other than me.

I may not have a child of my own, but I do have a fictional sun of my own, and it shines brightly upon my spirit. I shall see it grow up and get a life of its own.

I need to create! I love to create!

Been wondering if I should tell my friends and relatives about this for a while now. Those very close to me already know that I'm suffering from a psychosis sickness, or schizophrenia.

Started a few years ago with a psychotic episode, likely due to a long period of bad sleep and possibly genes. It really was like a dance with the devil, wonderful at times, and absolutely horrible at other times. Mostly horrible... Had some auditory hallucinations, perhaps some visual ones too. Nothing completely out of the ordinary, no pink elephants or dragons. Lasted a few weeks before I got medicated.

My problems were, and still are, thoughts, invasive, automatic ones. You know how if you wish to think about something, you just "do it"? You just go there in your mind and you can leave any time you want. For me, when I'm in a bad spot, the thoughts just keep coming and they don't stop. I can't "leave". They are horrible thoughts as well. Thoughts that for some reason appear so real that you can not distinguish them from reality. In episodes I've believed everything from having killed someone to being the reason someone killed themselves. And it all seemed so real.

Why am I writing this? Perhaps as a way to tell myself that I am sick. That the doctors, nurses, psychologists, and my family are all correct. I sometimes don't think I am sick. I sometimes think this is all some very disgusting piece of psychological experiment or other type of conspiracy being done, and everyone is in on it. That alternative reality is horrid and I don't want it to be true, so I'm writing this from the point of view that I believe I am sick. I want to be able to trust people around me.

Also writing this to perhaps create better understanding among people. I'm not some unpredictable lunatic who is going to hurt people. In my case, I was more likely to hurt myself because of the things I believed, but even then, I was very far away from something drastic, such as suicide. When you believe that all of society thinks you are rotten, it is easy to believe that you truly are.

I wasn't born this way. I lived a somewhat normal life before this, studies and work. My brother suffers from depression, and before this, I often pondered why he didn't just control his thoughts. Now I know better. Now I know that you can't always control your mind. A scary and costly revelation.

How does this affect me? That's a long list. Concentration, energy, relations, and more, they're all taking a big hit. I'm no longer working or studying as much as before.

But this has not only been a negative experience for me. I have learned a lot. I got insight into my fathers death and understood it better. He too suffered from psychosis sickness, he most likely took his life during a psychotic episode, and I can understand why that might happen now. You just aren't in control of yourself or your mind when this strikes you. You become unreasonable and all logic escapes you, or rather, creates a new logic for you.

If there are any questions I would be happy to answer them! It is better to ask questions than to wander around with possibly inaccurate presumptions.

Oh... and my username, I guess it's a bit more correct now... how ironic.

I love humanity. I love nature. I understand that both can be harsh.

I believe that love is something more than just chemicals in the brain. I believe the scientists, but I also believe in the human soul. I hope there is a paradisical afterlife, perhaps I even believe in it, too. Yet I adhere to no major religion. To me, my paradise will greet me regardless of my mortal actions. Life justifies all. Am I a hypocrite? Sometimes. Am I sometimes bad? Yes. Am I sometimes good? Yes. Am I human? Yes. I therefore love myself, and you too, dear reader, whoever you are, I love you.

They are both grey. One is old and scarred, it has been dragged through the mud, seen the horrors of the world, and has lost its pack. The other has never known strife, never been left alone in the cold, its fur clean and pristine. One represents evil. One represents good. Which is which?

I try to feed my wolves equal amounts. They both need to eat. And parting with one, will weaken the other. There are times when I have failed to feed them equally. Times where I have fed one wolf more. When my heart becomes void and callous, my thoughts dark and vicious. Yet in the depths of depravity, there is still a flicker of hope. Other times my heart glows like a sun, my thoughts filled with beauty. Yet even in the heights of the heavens, there is still a patch of darkness. Can one of the wolves truly ever win?