Depression isn't 'solvable'

There’s a new brand of Jungian guru going around. Not too much unlike pop psychologists. There’s an idea one of them has, that depression is a problem to be ‘solved’ by learning how to stop lying to yourself and being less close-minded.

1.16.2025

The most interesting part of this paper is how inability to gain Insight (alexithymia) through adaptive self-reflection is correlated to less resilient outcomes. Alexithymia is, at its essence, externally oriented cognitive style and inability to become lucid in the dream. I think this is the operating principle behind one subtype of depression (extraverted), but this can't be generalized to all of it. There's a different type that still exists, regardless of high resilience.

Above mentalism isn't enough of a solution for this type of depression, and when it's in excess, you get the schizophrenic state. Agency and Energy accumulation is the final stake to ground one between the two worlds, increase social battery life, and restore equilibrium, which then allows one to create more roots behaviorally by being socially active within a community.

Centerlessness & The Formatory Apparatus

I am afraid of achieving centerlessness. Not there with meditation yet. Consciousness is a bunch of centers observing each other. Attention and memory aren’t the binding, but the observation itself. The Formatory Apparatus is the field through which these centers are organized and bound. Maybe this is the causal role? Related to the binding problem, I believe consciousness precedes physics.

These revelations come from my meditative experience, Gurdjieff happens to lay them out masterfully.

The researcher poses this question: how do the boundaries between experience come about? Well maybe there is no single causal principle, but it’s a field. As for what makes the field behave the way it does, I have no idea, but I doubt we can scientifically measure it.

Centerlessness seems like another spiritual bypass. There was a brief twitter fad around this and people who've achieved it and now I think it's another dissolution. The goal should be to organize them all towards a single goal for a prolonged period of time, not to collapse the bridges.

Merry Christmas<3

Extend the roots

And cut down the tree

An infinite retreat

Is what awaits thee

His rib removed

Autofellacio

Reconsuming the secretion

For an infinite first creation

Collapse the bridges on your way

The centers can’t communicate

To access the non-local state

A spatial-temporal psychotic break

You shall forever cease to wake

The Confusion of the Psychic and the Spiritual

Much of what people believe is ‘spiritual experience’ is just getting caught up in qualia. People do not understand the difference between spirit and soul; this is the first mistake.

At the beginning, there are referents that lead to ‘spiritual realizations,’ which are really just intuitions that’ve been tumbling around unconsciously for a while. But then people get lost in associations, leading to retrieval amnesia. These are psychical.

The same kinds of people Guenon speaks about that do Yoga as some form of physical or mental exercise confuse the psychic and spiritual dimensions and set themselves up to get hurt. It’s the same with people who want to delve into Jungian “Shadow Work” and psychedelics.

Many people searching for mystical experience are really sensation-seekers who mistake this for transcendent experience. Anything that can’t be categorized as ‘mundane’ is basically mystical to them. Guenon reiterates sentiments expressed by Evola about ego death in the psychedelic experience; ‘dissolution into cosmic consciousness’ is the opposite of transcendence. Dissociation is a great example of something treated as transcendent when it’s really a dissolution; these people strive to separate forms from material and don’t realize they are fragmenting their consciousness.

There exists a type of Jungian who likens a dissociative episode with a Hero’s journey. Mistakes her fragmentation of soul for a mystical experience, starts a podcast. “Maps the ineffable” and doesn’t realize the contradiction. “Shadow work meditation” is the natural byproduct of this silliness

The problem is a very specific type of "spiritual seeker" person, they always want to 'get into stuff,' but without connection to an actual higher goal. All they're doing is sensation-seeking and trying to escape pain; they only seek connection, even at the expense of truth, and only want exposure to things that make them feel good about themselves at the expense of anything higher. There's a whole internet exoteric space larping as esoteric for this. Which isn't as bad as listlessly going about life, but this becomes the epitome of experience for them & they mistake this for transcendental experience. Everything can become ineffable if you simply can't process it. And no, this isn't the entire definition. Tell me this: how is one to know if what one has encountered is truly ineffable and not just smoke and mirrors? Is an intellectually-endowed person really a magician, or just seemingly so in relation to the everyman? Is it hubris to believe you can “map out” the ineffable? Can one explain the Tao without going against it? This is all a surrogate activity; not a visionary one. The answer to these questions is always intuition. But these people mistake the feeling for the intuitive. It’s a comfort trap at the end of the day. Life is a series of constant suffering; the exoteric is tailored to mitigate but not embrace this. Many so-called, and especially self-anointed “visionaries” are charlatans trying to keep their patrons within this illusion for profit; whether this be monetary or attentional, it’s an energetic waste. The youth and half-naïve are their targets.

A: I think people need to find the Fire. https://www.alchemywebsite.com/pontan_1.html

A: They did set theory on the Tao https://papers.ssrn.com/sol3/papers.cfm?abstract_id=3755092

Dead internet is much more than just bot activity; it's the reduction of the human down to energetic tokens to be used on an exchange. Even if you know you're talking to a person, there's fundamentally some kind of fragmentation that has happened to them; interactions don't feel organic because this goes contrary to their best interests; they have censored themselves so much for such low stakes they cease to speak and spend their lives shilling. Very sad

Approaching another local maxima

Many a man lay paralyzed, unable to proceed past the brink

never contenting themselves with just being able to see

they romanticize their contemplation; they see only constellation

They have their theories,

tested historically on fools of action stumbling recklessly—off the cliff, to

stand triumphantly atop the summit of yet another local maxima &

remain fools, with ease of mind—

& the self-anointed contemplative man emerges from the shade of a tree,

loudly professing his sanctity.

The neurosis of the modern time; deaffectation—

that confines their relatedness to their projections

safe, ensnared, within the screen – knowledge of the prior,

makes them confident in their self-recognition.

those types I meet, they take out sharpened protractors,

meticulously tracing angles;

each star must pass through the line

they only see their constellations &

mistake these for the zenith.

Brilliancy, high stature, affability; they seek an Extraordinary recipe

They forget the person is not just a Thing to be assembled,

customized,

by mere perception and Promethean effort—

Extraordinary ability requires Extraordinary living

But those who seek the former recoil at the latter,

and prefer the purity of their comfort

thus becoming paralyzed.

And what good is brilliancy when it slowly suffocates,

Tears down this high stature,

& gold poison flowing relentlessly throughout my veins,

the bile of that repressed revulsion for the sake of affability

Every day a new principle betrayed

for the sake of communication.

Lovely man, where did you go?
A star I met this sunset last
Did you return to the ground, or rise past the night?
I wish that I had gotten to know you well enough to miss your voice this much

son of Neptune, did you tire flight?
Sometimes you seem to cross my mind
It’s been out for many moons, but I hold the line
And that’s alright,
It means you’ve finally found the light

And I know I don’t need much to keep this fire of mine,
no shortage of supply

a reminder, I should also get moving
but for now I stick to the illusion

Th nature of sin, animus possession, the fae, initiation

On “The White People,” by Arthur Machen

A friend of mine once asked me what the difference between a sorcerer and a wizard was. The wizard endeavors to recover a gift which he has lost, the sorcerer tries to obtain something which was never his.

The nurse warns the girl after her initiation; she does not take heed, and by attempting to enlighten the village, she joins the dead in the black pit.

Her powers to transmute mundane objects into gemstones acquired upon ascent; they originate from her rebirth, if the catalyst is successfully integrated. Instant karma and other meaningful coincidences; an otherworldly entity that has taken an interest in us as a personification of one’s own accumulated magnetism?

"Do as thou wilt" is the weapon of the reprobate, the panacea of the virtuous. When I stated that the ideal use of giftedness is to uplift humanity to a former glory, to recover what was lost in the past to beget a better future, I'm met with a condescending laugh. We can strive to fulfill ideals and become the highest versions of ourselves, but we can't become anything more than human; attempting to do so is trying to climb the Tower of Babel. History repeats.

Maybe the fae are just tricksters that target the disconnected to amplify disorderly subconscious, altering the psyche to lead them astray from true love and connection to the divine with promises of a golden calf.

A sphinx controls the voodoo doll; she weds herself. To exorcise the animus' control, the ego must be set ablaze and the animus must be tossed inside the conflagration.

A: Without being proactive in your ‘beingness,’ one simply splinters off.

like the opposite of a google search

surreptitious sabbatical meandering coincidental synchronicity flailing about caught up in prehensions hermeneutically synthesizing soundbites into homomorphic craptosraphic integrated agents integrated into a miasmic microcosm recycling stuffing straight into his chesthole, an ego-driven ego-death

The grinding gears whir

Grey rusted creaks; wretched, unceasing

In both directions, rotating

You said come run away with me

We’ll join the circus, it’ll be a breeze

You’d look so sexy on a trapeze

They say once we arrive, there’d be no one waiting

Better than wasting, misplaced, unaging

A solo show then; bravo!

The tones change

Ripples dance across his face

I remain arrested

Performing in a parade for a crowd departed

I once found you in an old man draped across the keyboard;
Black tie, dark eyes
A snapshot of time I could call all mine.
A creak:
The wooden planks betray me,
And he would never even guess
That your old shirts lined posthumously on the rack
Like a 60s vinyl anthology
Hang perturbed by waif fingers caressing
Morrison and Barrett.
Lips on your neck, I close my eyes:
A breeze from my old dorm by the sea—
Cool beans—it’s that
evanescent smell of my teens—
I used to page through his book of your memories
While the bed creaked...
Perhaps this is why he’s covered you with a staff sheet.

Ourboros… the smegma that births itself

On the spectrum

Fissure in rectum

Responsible for all the antisemetism

Institutional correction

Will fix the problems of this nation

Sound resounding

Of an ass pounding

His hips a Booty Warriah’s mounting

Obsessively, the autist is counting

Ejaculation of smegma

Into starving orifices

Bellies filling to the brim

Up fallopian tubes

Another ejaculation into the birthing hole

Explodes out the original orifice

To birth the goo

The goo of Yakub

To be Yakonsoomed by the womb

Morphing incest babies

Are me and you

The Watchmaker

Tick tock,
Follow the rabbit down the block,
One day, he’ll capture her pocket-clock,
The Watchmaker says she can rewind,
Infinite time, finite mind,
Ascend the helix, maybe you’ll find,
That realm of bliss you left behind.

Coffeehouse Slam 2k17

(Please provide snaps, when I get famous I’ll remember who didn’t)

I had my first existential crisis when I realized Harry Styles was too old for me,
And I remembered the time my 5th grade math teacher,
Took away my necklace during the exam,
Because it was “too distracting,”
And my mom stormed up the stairs to yell at him until he placated her,
Though really, math was just so hard,
All those numbers, stark on that page,
Speaking a truth so immutable,
I simply couldn’t look away,
But instead, I could play with this chain,
And pretend they didn’t have a say:
I still remember the feeling of her placing my necklace into my palm; the victory; Empowerment,
FUCK THE ESTABLISHMENT,
Maaan,
Where have all the moms gone in this society?
When there are so many,
People who can’t choose to pee,
Because the bathroom isn’t labeled just for me,
And speaking of pee,
I’ll unload every single main-stream,
Opinion,
Into the collective toilet of the global stage,
Yet complain I live in a cage,
20 minutes to let out my rage,
Because I wasn’t born beige,
Or maybe I was born beige,
Without the opportunity to play,
And I’ll make it everyone else’s responsibility,
To get on the same page,
Repetition,
Repetition,
Repetition,
A pause over here,
Makes this verse deep,
I’LL ENUNCIATE THIS LINE BECAUSE ITS OF UTMOST IMPORTANCE
NO ONE CAN HEAR ME SCREAM
Though my voice is echoed through every commercial advertising,
My soul is like a simile trapped in a maze,
Filled with so much haze,
So much haze,
I think I’ll ejaculate on stage,
But first I’ll watch this sports game,
To avoid the shame,
Of being a freak,
And I want everyone to think the normals are all just jealous of me,
We claim we want to be free,
We claim we want higher things,
But ultimately, we don’t even know what that means,
So why bother? Let’s all just indulge in ecstasy,
And jack each other off inside this cave,
Why bother leaving when there’s no total comprehending?
Consider yourself,
Canceled

The moment you try to figure out their pattern, they immediately fall into disarray, tauntingly trying to communicate a message I cannot hear

Birthday:

the day of birth. From the moment we’re birthed, we thirst; for the waters we crawl from the cruel sands we’re thrust. The soul suckers that soar above where none can see swoop down to take their pickings from some poor turtle born retarded, the grains never stop dripping, encircling lacerated flippers while the sun scorches wrinkly once luscious shells, every breathe a heave, decaying flesh stuck behind a desk, merely a brain inside of a rat contained in a phone-shaped vat, ordering ipas on tap. You take this here needle and lay in the sand, or take this crisp sheet and get fat off the land. And yet we still yearn, and yet we still dance… We should all just eat a plant and behold… a fishbowl!

Hours stretch into irretrievable years,
It’s hot but comfortable here,
Like magnets, we attract what we send out,
I untether my soul, let it wander about.

There once was a man named Assange,
Who had a gigantic sausage,
The government he had hacked,
They wanted him $WHACKD,
For freeing the info échange.

There once was a fae in the woods,
Who’d forage for mycelic goods,
But she boop bopped the peep,
Of a human asleep,
Now he walks with a slit ‘neah his hood!

One you provide, you’ll alchemize,
Turn that *poop* into red wine,
Heart locked up, but third eye open wide,
Let Pan enter and roam around inside
A mere vessel, eardrums a passage
As the two shake hands, and you leave the head.
Limbs flail to 100 bpm,
Joints unhinge, necks crack, fully possessed,
Manic energy, a bowl of spaghetti,
Nourishment for the starving crowd.

This time around shall be my last,

Secrets released, untethering my feet,

I’m ready to become one with the stars.

______________________________________________________________

The overcast dissipates
To reveal shimmering, turquoise waters,
Like white gemstones adorning soft waves,
Slowly flattening…
Into a warm blanket, enveloping,
Warping into a wormhole I shall sink into,
Like in adolescence, when I jumped
Backwards off that brick wall,
With a smile on my face,
Awaiting the stain,
And landed on a
Soft, sinking
Mattress