Ah, the master of self-hate, it is but a pit-stop on the journey to responsibility, and thereon integrity. Hang in there and keep walking, don’t stop and be satisfied with it. It’s infinitely better than its alternatives: fury or extraverted anger.
Psychotherapy fails at one critical thing, which leaves it caught with its pants down: the distinction between what is normal and what is apparent. It cannot find this in consensual repetition of empirical data, as there is no ‘ought’ from ‘is’. Thus, unless Psychotherapy provides an irrefutable ’meaning’ of the subject, or of at least something to do with the subject, it will render itself as a pseudo-science. It cannot do this however, because it is intent on building on thin air through its inductive processes mixed with statistical analyses, as such it is stuck with the same faith in 60% positive outcome; which is wholy insufficient for knowledge, and barely so for pragmatic purposes.
In effect the Doctor says to the client, here’s a pill (or procedure) which will make you like everyone else, even though I don’t know if that is the solution to your problem, hopefully that is what it is and what you want.
Psychology: how to give people excuses for their actions and then tell them that those very excuses are wrong.
Nothing is more salient of our mal-growth than our seeking for blame.
You can’t fault the child for the parent, but you can fault the parent for the child.
I’d sooner be asleep in a dream I have created, than be awake in a dream everyone else has accepted.
We are not done; there’s more to be said,
About Mortality’s gruesome and cold bed.
Our adjectives disclose a closed perspective,
They cannot grasp the totality’s incentive.
Love and God are either empty, or not,
The former is lost, the latter has hit the spot.
Emptiness and fullness places trust on the eye,
Without the viewpoint they cannot come nigh.
These two words, our salvations, leave us with a choice,
“Make us, or unmake us”, speaks their calm voice.
Love that uncanny feeling we fervently chase;
Until we surrender her, we are eluded from her face.
God, that logical impossibility, that ambiguous glitch,
How we yearn him for meaning; we would easily embrace the ditch.
Drifters; humble, arrogant and sentient drifters,
We “row, row, row our boats gently down the stream”.
We step, step, step our feet in this coward’s dream.
Workers; soulless, conditioned and emotive workers.
Mortality, that coquettish wench, breathes us past GO,
The 200 we were promised is nowhere to be seen,
Card after card, mortgage after mortgage leaves us keen.
We drain our eyes of all life, and to pain we proclaim, NO!
But lo and behold! salvation awaits with a glimmer.
Empty words and imagined faces we conjure from deep,
The sweet burden of our illusions we motherly keep.
The very act makes the lights of pain dimmer and dimmer.
Love and God: the emptiest of all words we employ,
As salvation from misery becomes this arduous decoy.
When Destiny (if you are comfortable with such things) knocks on your door, she asks a question, one of the simplest kind; with an answer of either ’yes’ or ‘no’. Your response is bound by these two extremes. Even Destiny is immersed in freedom; humble, warm and loving, like a mother she lets you choose what’s best.
Irony, she is cruel but sweet; oh, how she shows her face when a five year old girl screams at the heights of her voice: “Girls versus Boys; Girls versus Boys; Girls versus Boys.”
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