Well, my website has once again undergone another change. It's new form is that of a release for all the emotions bouncing around inside me. You'll find poems, both by me and others, and long texts revealing my thoughts. It may seem rather depressing, but that's the way life is, and there's no changing it.
When I first thought about doing this, I was worried about whether or not if I should put my name to this. In the end, I decided that I might as well, since theres really no reason I shouldn't. The net is a vast place, and the only anyone would ever come upon this page is by chance, or if I give them the link. So, the chances of someone I don't want seeing this page seeing this page is next to none.
If you are viewing this page, I hope you find it an interesting read.
Jeffrey Arthur Healy
When I look inside me I find a mirror that once reflected all that I was, and all that I could be. But cruel, cruel faye has cast its stone, and I am left to pick through the pieces and wonder if I will ever find a way to fix the shattered mirror of my life.
Nobody seems to understand the fact that all the fancy pills and techniques in the world cannot help me if I cannot find it in myself to want that help. And while I may indeed need that help, I can not currently find it in myself to want that help. And that makes all the difference in the world. You see, as far as I can tell, there is no reason in my life that makes it worth the effort to continue on.
From childhood's hour I have not been As others were; I have not seen As others saw; I could not bring My passions from a common spring. From the same source I have not taken My sorrow; I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone; And all I loved, I loved alone. Then- in my childhood, in the dawn Of a most stormy life- was drawn From every depth of good and ill The mystery which binds me still: From the torrent, or the fountain, From the red cliff of the mountain, From the sun that round me rolled In its autumn tint of gold, From the lightning in the sky As it passed me flying by, From the thunder and the storm, And the cloud that took the form (When the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a demon in my view.
Back in the seventies, a political scientist proposed a reason as to why so many of the homeless people out there stayed homeless. He said that about half of the homeless people were that way because they had a radically present-oriented outlook on life. No matter how much money they were given, they would always remain homeless because they placed no value on work, sacrifice, self-improvement, or service. Regardless of whether or not he was right about that being the reason for their homelessness, I believe he was correct in that there are people like that in the world. I know this because I am one of those people. I have no hopes, no dreams, no goals, no desires, no ambitions, no nothing. I have never thought about anything more than the now. I am empty inside.
I stand at the brink of nothingness, looking out at the void. I long for its final embrace, the darkness closing around me, holding me for eternity. I wish, so hard, to take that last step. But I cannot bring myself to it, And yet I cannot walk away. So I walk along the edge of oblivion, step by step, day by day. I live upon the edge of oblivion, step by step, day by day.
Today, out of sheer boredom, I watched Being John Malkovich. It's a movie about a guy who finds a portal that allows him to be John Malkovich for 15 minutes. It was quite an interesting watch, and it also embodied one of my deepest wishes: to be able to be someone else, even if for only a little while. For me, it wouldn't even have to be someone famous, or powerful, or anything. Hell, I wouldn't give a damn who i could be as long as for that short amount of time, I wouldn't have to be me.
Watch out for power, for its avalanche can bury you, snow, snow, snow, smothering your mountain. Watch out for hate, it can open its mouth and youíll fling yourself out to eat off your leg, an instant leper. Watch out for friends, because when you betray them, as you will, they will bury their heads in the toilet and flush themselves away. Watch out for intellect, because it knows so much it knows nothing and leaves you hanging upside down, mouthing knowledge as your heart falls out of your mouth. Watch out for games, the actorís part, the speech planned, known, given, for they will give you away and you will stand like a naked little boy, pissing on your own child-bed. Watch out for love (unless it is true, and every part of you says yes including the toes), it will wrap you up like a mummy, and your scream wonít be heard and none of your running will end. Love? Be it man. Be it woman. It must be a wave you want to glide in on, give your body to it, give your laugh to it, give, when the gravelly sand takes you, your tears to the land. To love another is something like prayer and canít be planned, you just fall into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief. Special person, if I were you Iíd pay no attention to admonitions from me, made somewhat out of your words and somewhat out of mine. A collaboration. I do not believe a word I have said, except some, except I think of you like a young tree with pasted-on leaves and know youíll root and the real green thing will come. Let go. Let go. Oh special person, possible leaves, this typewriter likes you on the way to them, but wants to break crystal glasses in celebration, for you, when the dark crust is thrown off and you float all around like a happened balloon.
Run and hide, folks. This topic is one of my sore spots.
I am an atheist. Deep down, I believe I've always been one, but I did participate in my parent's religion until about a year ago. My parents are Roman Catholic, although to tell the truth, they're kinda slacking off theologically themselves as of late.
I honesty can see no way that there exists a God like the one talked about in a Bible. There are a lot of reasons for this. For example, the consensus is that if you commit suicide, you're going straight to Hell. Look at the logic of this. You've had a life chock-full of sorrow and pain, and you commit suicide as a way out. But because you committed suicide, your soul is going to spend eternity of suffering in Hell. What kind of God would let this happen?
Here's another example of how badly religion is screwed over. According to the Bible and widespread belief, God is omnicognant, so he knows all. Wouldn't that mean that when he created humanity, he'd known all that was going to happen to us, yet he made us anyways? Not very nice coming from the being that is supposed to be our protector and guide. For a tangent on this thread: by the same reasoning, wouldn't he have known of the treachery of Lucifer, and therefore could have prevented it? Not much of a God to let something like that happen in his organization.
However, my biggest supporter of why I think God does not exist is this: Look at the condition of our world. Terrible things happen every day; wars, famine, disease. The purpose of having a God is so that he can intervene upon our behalf. If all he does is sit and watch, what good is he? Why bother worshipping him if we don't get anything out of it?
Alright, just to add some variety, here are some non-depressing, and even in some cases inspirational, poems. People may wonder why someone feeling like I am has poems like these on the page. Just because I am depressed doesn't mean I don't appreciate beauty. Even in sadness one can find beauty, and sometimes the beauty found in sadness is the most beautiful of all.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I- I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.
Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village, though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.
Frost has always been one of my favorite poets. His poems have always touched something inside me. I think he is one of the few poets out there whose poems really call to my emotions.
When the light outside is gone, And the darkness closes in, Be strong, and remember that Nothing can quench the light within.
Here we go again.
I have a feeling that my entire problem with life right now comes from dealing with other people. When I was growing up, I had maybe 2 or 3 friends. I was always one of those people who was left out, and I pretty much grew up just another guy in the corner, overlooked and ignored.
Now, this wouldn't really be a bad thing, except for the fact that something inside me is driving me to fit in. I mean, if you gave me a good long book and a nice, quiet area, I'd be fine. I really don't mind being alone that much anymore: it's peaceful, and quiet, and it gives you time to think. But deep inside, there's this voice driving me to fit in, to get people to like me and be my friend. It's annoying, but I just can't make it go away.
Further enhancing the problem is the fact that, for some inexplicable reason, people seem to take great pleasure in using me as a punching bag, physically and verbally. I've never been one to fight back, or really fight at all, so I guess I'm just a prime target.
Is there no end of war? The skies are bright While smoke of battle dooms the enenomed fields With mimic lightnings hurled across the night, And back to savagery the sad earth reels; But hope of death the gruesome day reveals: No more does peace her snowy banner wave; The wreck of youth, the god of war conceals, As, bearing a many noble heart and brave, Proud crafts descend to doom beneath the shattered wave. O tempora! O mores! While the fray Resounds across the seas, from shore to shore, We scan the far horizon; Lo! Today, A nation is; tomorrow, is no more, And love is but a legend fair of yore. Behold the dizzy monarch of the skies, His radiance darkened, as his throne before, The souls from many a battlefield arise, And tyrant's word the law of man and God defies. Foretold, O prophet of the Apocalypse, Earth's direful doom approaching! Worn with time, An ominous sun into the ocean dips; The stars, encircling, chant in tone sublime, Our mystic woes, in universal rhyme. Famine has kissed the land, with livid lips; Destructions shrouds full many a sunny chime; Each trembling heart the demon, Terror, grips; The light of Hope is dim in unforseen eclipse.
Yesterday was my first day of group therapy. It might help, except for the fundamental issue that all my problems have come from my interactions with groups of people. Don't get me wrong, the people in the group are nice and all, but I am just inherently nervous about talking about this stuff in front of other people. I have a hard enough time talking to the therapist I see once a week when it's just me and him, let alone when there are 3 therapists and 6 other kids in the room. I just kinda subconsciously clam up.
Too beautiful music, A haunting refrain Makes me sad- Lonely on a hilltop In the rain. Makes me feel I have not done That which I Was sent to do, Makes me long And hunger to know All things true. Too beautiful music, A haunting refrain, Are you, perhaps, The echoing grandeur Of some celestial pain?
Today, I had a startling insight. I realized that the real reason, the true reason for me writing all this down on my webpage. When I first started this, I kept thinking to myself I was doing it so that I could let other people know how I felt, and maybe get them to take pity on me. Now I realize that I have done all this because, when I look at it and read it, I can treat t like any other book, and think of it all as someone else's problem. As long as I'm reading it, I can feel like I'm just reading a tragic book, and my life on the other side of that book is all hunky-dory.
I We are the hollow men We are the stuffed men Leaning together Headpiece filled with straw. Alas! Our dried voices, when We whisper together Are quiet and meaningless As wind in dry grass Or rats' feet over broken glass In our dry cellar Shape without form, shade without colour, Paralysed force, gesture without motion; Those who have crossed With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom Remember us -- if at all -- not as lost Violent souls, but only As the hollow men The stuffed men. II Eyes I dare not meet in dreams In death's dream kingdom These do not appear: There, the eyes are Sunlight on a broken column There, is a tree swinging And voices are In the wind's singing More distant and more solemn Than a fading star. Let me be no nearer In death's dream kingdom Let me also wear Such deliberate disguises Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves In a field Behaving as the wind behaves No nearer -- Not that final meeting In the twilight kingdom III This is the dead land This is cactus land Here the stone images Are raised, here they receive The supplication of a dead man's hand Under the twinkle of a fading star. Is it like this In death's other kingdom Waking alone At the hour when we are Trembling with tenderness Lips that would kiss Form prayers to broken stone. IV The eyes are not here There are no eyes here In this valley of dying stars In this hollow valley This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms In this last of meeting places We grope together And avoid speech Gathered on this beach of the tumid river Sightless, unless The eyes reappear As the perpetual star Multifoliate rose Of death's twilight kingdom The hope only Of empty men. V Here we go round the prickly pear Prickly pear prickly pear Here we go round the prickly pear At five o'clock in the morning. Between the idea And the reality Between the motion And the act Falls the Shadow For Thine is the Kingdom Between the conception And the creation Between the emotion And the response Falls the Shadow Life is very long Between the desire And the spasm Between the potency And the existence Between the essence And the descent Falls the Shadow For Thine is the Kingdom For Thine is Life is For Thine is the This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends Not with a bang but a whimper.
Y'know, the more time I spend in therapy, the more I think it's not not for me. Contrary to the popular opinion, therapy isn't really doing anything to help me. As a matter of fact, it's making me feel worse because the therapists are making me look inside myself and answer a bunch of questions that I've avoided so that I could be reasonably happy. I am taking a look at the truth about me, and it is making suicide look better and better. I've even began thinking about that very subject more and more lately. I just hope I can find a solution, any solution, to this whole thing quick before the pain gets any worse.