Post by adm on Aug 23, 2011 8:42:34 GMT -6
Man is the only creature that refuses to be what he is.
Albert Camus
The wind howls as the rain pounds the pavement. Tiny drops falling in torrents. A shadow, a wraith walks across the concrete, hands in his coat pockets. There is no umbrella, no protection from the downpour. He stares up, the water bouncing off his glasses as he closes his eyes, trying to let it wash and purify him of something he cannot speak of. Trying to cleanse his soul of the distress he has felt so strongly for so long.
He lets out a long, woeful sigh. His whole body caves in to the sigh, and expels as much negative energy and depression from his body as humanly possible with a single breath, but failing to complete the task, he sighs again in response to his lingering depression.
"The rain is like a flood, a flood to cleanse and purify the world. In the morning, when it is all over, there will be greener grass, fresher flowers, and the fecal droppings of dogs will be dissolved into the dirt."
Another sigh, as he turns and walks down the next street. Couples wander the streets, holding umbrellas, and each other, close. The expression on his face is one of depression, of a man who is alone. His being alone is magnified by his personal demons, whatever they may be, that he is trying to suppress.
"It is like I am walking through the rain, to cleanse myself of the lingering smolders of my morning walk through this burning city. The fires of Hell follow me, metaphorically speaking. Everything is worse when seen through the eyes of the solitary man."
He turns between another set of tall buildings, not really paying attention to the people he passes, giving a quick glance here and there with his downward looking eyes, trying to avoid bumping into people while as deep in thought as he is. The denim coat he wears over the ripped jeans and sullied and soaked t-shirt does not protect him from the torrents, it only absorbs and filters the cleansing water with the residue of the filth acquired since the last time the jacket was washed.
"Today is Monday, tomorrow is Tuesday, and Sunday is the next stop on this roundabout tour of the United States as the nCw Honor Champion. And I'm beginning to lose my taste for this again. I'm beginning to lose my taste for gold, for accolades, but I cannot stop myself from my need to destroy others to satisfy my own hunger for inner peace."
He turns into the hotel he is staying at, a three-floor building on the edge of the downtown business district that is lined with expensive shops. The city he is in is far from where he should be this week. He caught a quick flight Monday morning to be here, to be in territory away from the rest of the crew of nCw to pursue his own personal demons. He is here, for a purpose.
He walks past the front desk, smiles tentatively at the security guard and walks up the carpet-lined stairs to the second floor, taking a right, left, right, and then facing the door to his room. 235, at least for tonight, he thinks to himself. At least for tonight it is 235. Tomorrow might be 328 or 189, but tonight it is this one. Tonight this is my home. As he puts the key card into the slot, he lets out another sigh and we fade to black on the open hotel room door.
****
I'm sure you are probably relishing in the two outbursts I have been caught with last week. I regret them, I truly do. How I cannot control my own anger is beyond me, and it distresses me completely. This is not the place or time to be trying to "find myself." I am thirty-three years old, almost thirty-four. I am divorced. I have two children. I should KNOW who I am by now. But the lingering thoughts are spawned by my being so terribly alone here. Thoughts questioning whether what I have become, is truly what I wanted to be. Is this who I am? Or am I not quite that person yet? Questions about self-identity are typically reserved for teens and twenty-something college dropouts, not for a thirty-three year old Honor Champion of nCw. Not for Kristoff Liam Bates, not for me. At least, it shouldn't be.
This brings me to the lunatic that is trying to run this show right now, Doctor Jonas Potter. I trust him, he's a doctor. What I don't trust, are his psychological evaluations of me. He is not very well practiced in Jungian thought, let alone Existentialist Psychoanalysis or Maslow's Hierarchy. He has left all his brief training of psychology at the door in exchange for his in-depth knowledge of my physical ailments, and those of anyone else within these walls. Perhaps what he needs, is to take the Myer's Briggs Personality Identifier and try and figure out what his real problems are through that, because I can tell him my problems, have a lot to do with my variation of one of the sixteen personality configurations. One that, as i am told, is common for men of my type. Too sensitive, too emotional, too...WEAK.
At least that's what he'd probably call me. Along with Narcissistic. I'm sorry, Potter, you must be confusing me for Brad Kane, Spike Kane, or "Sexy" Jason Evans. These men are more narcissistic than I by far. Brad Kane was trying to "Slay the King" for his own personal gain, to prove to everyone he is deserving the respect he feels he earned by becoming World Champion, a year ago. Spike Kane is trying to do similar things by beating his drug addiction. They are seeking triumphs and conquests of the roster for gain of perceived integrity and respect. Jason Evans, well...he's almost as much a poster child for Narcissism as Narcissus was, the idiot who fell into a pool and drowned in Ancient Greece after seeing his reflection for the first time.
I may have a few "symptoms", Potter, but you know as well as I do, that depression can cause quite a number of them. Self-defeatist depression causes a lot of self-centered introspection, as well as outbursts of anger, of tears, of shame and regret. Depression mimics those symptoms. But what you are failing to realize, is that I don't use other people for my personal gain, I don't try to use you as a way to leverage my personal problems and gain my answers. Quite the opposite. You are only complicating matters by feeding me with your half-read psychobabble and are attempting to diagnose without a license, something illegal in most States, but you're British, so what do you care. All you want is your paycheck, and the extra on the side for treating our physical complications. Can you help me with the pain in my back, Dr. Potter? I think my depression has caused a stress-buildup in the middle of my back. Wait, you're not a massage therapist or chiropractor, oh darn. I kind of was hoping you were, that would really help me out.
Obviously, if you didn't catch the sarcasm, you are far less intelligent than you let on. But that's fine by me, I don't need you to diagnose me, I've come to this place to get the help I want, the help I NEED. I'll have to keep at this new method I have found, but I have been PROMISED to be helped. Promised by someone very famous right now in the Psychological world. And perhaps, he can help you, too, Mr. Potter.
****
The dim light of the hotel room lamp illuminates the room with an eerie glow. The focus of most of the light is on the bible next to the bed. Kristoff Liam Bates has just put it down, after reading a few passages. He still lacks religion, but he is trying whatever he can to find the answers he is looking for. The pages are bookmarked somewhere between Leviticus and the beginning of the New Testament. Perhaps he's reading about ancient laws, or perhaps he's lost in the stories of Samson and Jonah.
He sighs, staring at the television as it flickers from channel to channel, the remote in his hands. He stops at ESPN, where another sportscaster makes a joke at his expense, going over the results of Collision from Sunday. He can't help but think that he'd love to jump through the screen and throttle the idiot in the Armani suit, masquerading as someone who knows about more than sports. He sighs again, and picks up the phone. He is dialing a number that he has, by now, memorized. It rings twice, then is picked up.
"Yes, hello. This is Kristoff Liam Bates of nCw. Yes, thank you for recognizing who I am. Anyway...I'd like to set up an appointment for tomorrow. Is Mr. Bachmann available tomorrow? Great, what time? Three-thirty. I'll be there. Thank you. And God Bless You too."
As he hangs up the phone, he stares back at the television, at the mocking faces, and turns it off. He sighs, and turns out the lamp, ending it in darkness.
Man wants to live, but it is useless to hope that this desire will dictate all his actions.
Albert Camus
Albert Camus
The wind howls as the rain pounds the pavement. Tiny drops falling in torrents. A shadow, a wraith walks across the concrete, hands in his coat pockets. There is no umbrella, no protection from the downpour. He stares up, the water bouncing off his glasses as he closes his eyes, trying to let it wash and purify him of something he cannot speak of. Trying to cleanse his soul of the distress he has felt so strongly for so long.
He lets out a long, woeful sigh. His whole body caves in to the sigh, and expels as much negative energy and depression from his body as humanly possible with a single breath, but failing to complete the task, he sighs again in response to his lingering depression.
"The rain is like a flood, a flood to cleanse and purify the world. In the morning, when it is all over, there will be greener grass, fresher flowers, and the fecal droppings of dogs will be dissolved into the dirt."
Another sigh, as he turns and walks down the next street. Couples wander the streets, holding umbrellas, and each other, close. The expression on his face is one of depression, of a man who is alone. His being alone is magnified by his personal demons, whatever they may be, that he is trying to suppress.
"It is like I am walking through the rain, to cleanse myself of the lingering smolders of my morning walk through this burning city. The fires of Hell follow me, metaphorically speaking. Everything is worse when seen through the eyes of the solitary man."
He turns between another set of tall buildings, not really paying attention to the people he passes, giving a quick glance here and there with his downward looking eyes, trying to avoid bumping into people while as deep in thought as he is. The denim coat he wears over the ripped jeans and sullied and soaked t-shirt does not protect him from the torrents, it only absorbs and filters the cleansing water with the residue of the filth acquired since the last time the jacket was washed.
"Today is Monday, tomorrow is Tuesday, and Sunday is the next stop on this roundabout tour of the United States as the nCw Honor Champion. And I'm beginning to lose my taste for this again. I'm beginning to lose my taste for gold, for accolades, but I cannot stop myself from my need to destroy others to satisfy my own hunger for inner peace."
He turns into the hotel he is staying at, a three-floor building on the edge of the downtown business district that is lined with expensive shops. The city he is in is far from where he should be this week. He caught a quick flight Monday morning to be here, to be in territory away from the rest of the crew of nCw to pursue his own personal demons. He is here, for a purpose.
He walks past the front desk, smiles tentatively at the security guard and walks up the carpet-lined stairs to the second floor, taking a right, left, right, and then facing the door to his room. 235, at least for tonight, he thinks to himself. At least for tonight it is 235. Tomorrow might be 328 or 189, but tonight it is this one. Tonight this is my home. As he puts the key card into the slot, he lets out another sigh and we fade to black on the open hotel room door.
****
I'm sure you are probably relishing in the two outbursts I have been caught with last week. I regret them, I truly do. How I cannot control my own anger is beyond me, and it distresses me completely. This is not the place or time to be trying to "find myself." I am thirty-three years old, almost thirty-four. I am divorced. I have two children. I should KNOW who I am by now. But the lingering thoughts are spawned by my being so terribly alone here. Thoughts questioning whether what I have become, is truly what I wanted to be. Is this who I am? Or am I not quite that person yet? Questions about self-identity are typically reserved for teens and twenty-something college dropouts, not for a thirty-three year old Honor Champion of nCw. Not for Kristoff Liam Bates, not for me. At least, it shouldn't be.
This brings me to the lunatic that is trying to run this show right now, Doctor Jonas Potter. I trust him, he's a doctor. What I don't trust, are his psychological evaluations of me. He is not very well practiced in Jungian thought, let alone Existentialist Psychoanalysis or Maslow's Hierarchy. He has left all his brief training of psychology at the door in exchange for his in-depth knowledge of my physical ailments, and those of anyone else within these walls. Perhaps what he needs, is to take the Myer's Briggs Personality Identifier and try and figure out what his real problems are through that, because I can tell him my problems, have a lot to do with my variation of one of the sixteen personality configurations. One that, as i am told, is common for men of my type. Too sensitive, too emotional, too...WEAK.
At least that's what he'd probably call me. Along with Narcissistic. I'm sorry, Potter, you must be confusing me for Brad Kane, Spike Kane, or "Sexy" Jason Evans. These men are more narcissistic than I by far. Brad Kane was trying to "Slay the King" for his own personal gain, to prove to everyone he is deserving the respect he feels he earned by becoming World Champion, a year ago. Spike Kane is trying to do similar things by beating his drug addiction. They are seeking triumphs and conquests of the roster for gain of perceived integrity and respect. Jason Evans, well...he's almost as much a poster child for Narcissism as Narcissus was, the idiot who fell into a pool and drowned in Ancient Greece after seeing his reflection for the first time.
I may have a few "symptoms", Potter, but you know as well as I do, that depression can cause quite a number of them. Self-defeatist depression causes a lot of self-centered introspection, as well as outbursts of anger, of tears, of shame and regret. Depression mimics those symptoms. But what you are failing to realize, is that I don't use other people for my personal gain, I don't try to use you as a way to leverage my personal problems and gain my answers. Quite the opposite. You are only complicating matters by feeding me with your half-read psychobabble and are attempting to diagnose without a license, something illegal in most States, but you're British, so what do you care. All you want is your paycheck, and the extra on the side for treating our physical complications. Can you help me with the pain in my back, Dr. Potter? I think my depression has caused a stress-buildup in the middle of my back. Wait, you're not a massage therapist or chiropractor, oh darn. I kind of was hoping you were, that would really help me out.
Obviously, if you didn't catch the sarcasm, you are far less intelligent than you let on. But that's fine by me, I don't need you to diagnose me, I've come to this place to get the help I want, the help I NEED. I'll have to keep at this new method I have found, but I have been PROMISED to be helped. Promised by someone very famous right now in the Psychological world. And perhaps, he can help you, too, Mr. Potter.
****
The dim light of the hotel room lamp illuminates the room with an eerie glow. The focus of most of the light is on the bible next to the bed. Kristoff Liam Bates has just put it down, after reading a few passages. He still lacks religion, but he is trying whatever he can to find the answers he is looking for. The pages are bookmarked somewhere between Leviticus and the beginning of the New Testament. Perhaps he's reading about ancient laws, or perhaps he's lost in the stories of Samson and Jonah.
He sighs, staring at the television as it flickers from channel to channel, the remote in his hands. He stops at ESPN, where another sportscaster makes a joke at his expense, going over the results of Collision from Sunday. He can't help but think that he'd love to jump through the screen and throttle the idiot in the Armani suit, masquerading as someone who knows about more than sports. He sighs again, and picks up the phone. He is dialing a number that he has, by now, memorized. It rings twice, then is picked up.
"Yes, hello. This is Kristoff Liam Bates of nCw. Yes, thank you for recognizing who I am. Anyway...I'd like to set up an appointment for tomorrow. Is Mr. Bachmann available tomorrow? Great, what time? Three-thirty. I'll be there. Thank you. And God Bless You too."
As he hangs up the phone, he stares back at the television, at the mocking faces, and turns it off. He sighs, and turns out the lamp, ending it in darkness.
Man wants to live, but it is useless to hope that this desire will dictate all his actions.
Albert Camus