A place for a


A letter from his daughter

Paul got a letter from his daughter. He hesitated to read it. He put it away for a long time until he brought up the courage to open it. It said:


Hi daddy,

I had this voice in my head all my life. A voice that was telling me that I am a miserable piece of shit. That I don’t deserve love, don’t deserve pleasure, don’t deserve a fulfilling sex life.

Once the voice appeared in my dreams. It was the devil. A horrifying black cloud of terror. In that dream, I tried to fight him. Was it a him? Or was it an it? I tried to fight it, but my limbs were frozen. I could not move, as much as I tried. It ridiculed me and said You are mine. I whimpered and kept repeating to myself, No, no, no, oh please, god, no! Reality was disintegrating.

I woke up shaken and out of my mind. I pushed it all away, it could not be. I forced myself to forget about it.

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Short story: Altropia

May 9th, 2124 – The United Science Foundation of Altropia celebrates a critical breakthrough in space-time research.

June 15th, 2130 – The United Science Foundation of Altropia develops the first functioning prototype of the time machine.

January 1st, 2135 – The government of Altropia decides to travel back in time and bring a citizen from the 20th century back into the future, to grant him the great privilege of witnessing the society of Altropia – the first successful society consequently based on the altruistic principle.

February 2nd, 2135 – Jack Sober wakes up in a luxurious apartment in the Redwood District of Altropia’s capital, Veritruismo, after falling into a drunken delirium in the gutter of 1950’s New York City, U.S.A.. Jack thinks he must be the happiest bum on earth to have such a marvelous dream.

March 2nd, 2135 – Jack has been in Altropia for one month. Now follows the description of his day in the past tense.

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Recursive self-love and false lovers

An interesting little exercise came to me. Trying to love myself never really worked for me. Basically, I would focus on something I do not love, and then try to love it. I couldn’t. But I noticed something of value: When I try to love, I create a distinction between the loving entity and that which is to be loved. The loving entity fails to love the thing which is to be loved, so I assumed love was nonsense. But you can take it a step further and instead of focusing on loving that thing, focus on the loving entity. And when I do that, I get an image in my head of the loving entity. And when this happens, it becomes obvious why the loving entity is unable to love that thing – because this entity is a representation of a form of conditional, rather than unconditional, love. A representation of a form of love that I have come to learn as real love during the course of my life.

To continue, I then try to love this loving entity. Which brings up a different loving entity that is trying to love the first. Again, this is a representation of conditional love, and so I go on and try to love that entity.

This is a great exercise because it shows me from which place the love that I am trying to give is actually coming. And the farther I go back in the chain recursively, the purer the love becomes and the less susceptible it becomes to doing it the wrong way. The farther I go back, the more the voice of love becomes my own – and not one that is learned.

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Love is not submission

Many awakening people write with awe about their first being-in-the-moment experience. It typically seems to happen in nature, in some awesome scenery. For me, it happened in a totally ordinary situation today, while sitting in a metro.

I had been observing my thoughts and emotions for an hour or so. My anger, lust, shame, sadness, all those things. The voices in my head that negotiate whether something can be allowed or not. And then gradually, I felt that my own presence increased, and that my identification with my emotions and thoughts faded. They were still there, but they were no longer the exclusive focus of my attention.

Opposite of me sat an old man with circumorbital rings who seemed to be in a somber mood, dreamily looking outside the window at the dark walls passing the train. A hot girl stood somewhere, with a sharp nose, exuding a witch-like presence. An old woman was looking around looking for something to be pissed about. A well-dressed man with a well-kempt beard and great haircut stood there with a serene and masculine and slightly anxious expression on his face. Another old man was lost in his thoughts about some family relatives.

And so on.

I looked at them without judging them – while observing how my mind did just that.

I realized that most of my life, I had not been seeing people. Or things. Or anything for what it was. All I had been perceiving were my judgments, opinions and categorizations of them, thoughts about their relation to myself, and the emotions that resulted from all that mental debris. I had basically only been seeing myself and the things those people meant to me – not the people themselves.

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I saw a crazy screaming woman today – she reminded me of me

My first day as a free man in two months. I take a ride into the city to buy a cheap checkers game. On my way around the cathedral I hear a woman scream. A man is firmly holding a relatively attractive young woman’s two hands at a restaurant table. Let me go, she shouts. I wonder what it is about. I look at her hands; she has some kind of necklace wrapped around her fists.

I suspect she attacked the man and now she is getting what she asked for. Let me go, you asshole!

She looks around; a few somewhat amused people are watching. Help me! Help me, you cowards! Aah, you are hurting me! I feel mild shame, but I will not interfere in a situation I know nothing about. Besides, it is interesting to watch. In fact, it is interesting that there really seems nothing I can do without knowing what happened. Justice is a blind bitch.

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The black hole I come from

When all was dark and wet, I already knew I was not welcome. Then I came out, somebody held me and that black devil was waiting to hold me in her hands, the devil I had come out of. I protested and screamed in terror, but every baby screams. The black devil pulsated in a cloud of fluttering malice as it took me in her arms and filled my heart with ice. Had I had any hair, it would have stood up all over my body. I had to suck on her teat of sick skin, revulsed as I was. Had to swallow her toxic milk full of madness while all my senses protested; it was like drinking oil from the earth, more nourishing but less appetizing. I imagined myself as a spectator.

In this way I was introduced to the pretense of love.


Fare well, long dead uncle, the only dad I ever had

I have always lived with this quiet conviction that this world belong to the crazy monsters we call women and that men have no real place in it. I protested against it, but deep down, I felt it was futile and against the natural order. Their madness was destined for victory.

And real men? For whatever reason, they scared the hell out of me.

I avoided masculine men and when I looked into the mirror, I did not see a real man. Sure, I saw all the parts of a man. I saw a beard, a masculine face, all that. But I did not see masculinity. Could not see it. I saw a face that should look masculine to me and likely looked masculine to anybody else, but my sixth sense told me that it was a face totally and utterly devoid of masculinity. As if cursed.

Something inside me told me to call this blog Man Without Father a year ago. But I did have a father. Not the biological one, whom I never really emotionally cared about, yet that is something I did not understand. My real father was the man who took care of me until he died around my age of 2. I intellectually knew he had been there, but it meant nothing to me.

Until now.

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Free will is a double bind

You can do good and go to heaven or do bad and go to hell.

This obfuscates the true matter of question: If I do bad, do I go to hell? Do i have to suffer and lose self-love?

Thus to say you are free to choose in fact becomes you can not choose in conjunction with the biological imperative for love.

Thus, those who are good and made the choice to do so say they did it out of free will. While in reality, they did it as a result of a subconscious coercion.

In reality, what they call free will and virtue is the submission to shame and fear of not being loved and the belief of the lie that god will not love you if you do bad.

The absurdity of the regular free will statement lies in the claim that you are free to live a life without love – if you do bad. You obviously fail and drop into various addictions that replace love, however insufficiently. And eventually, depraved (of love), you come crawling back at the feet of the priests and they will say: See, a life of sin is not what you want. Here, come, embrace a virtuous life.

But you do not want a sinful life is a lie. The truth that has nothing to do with free will is: You can not choose to live a life without love.

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German poem: Lied der Liebe

Wald from Scartissue.us likes to write poems and even German poems. I like his shortest the most. Since I am a native German speaker, I feel inspired to share an old poem of mine. It actually did not make too much sense when I wrote it back then in 2012. I felt ashamed of writing about love and that kind of stuff. Of expressing sadness.

I thought that I could escape my past by burning proof of it.

This is one of the few poems that survived. I kept it explicitly as an example of what I do not want to feel. I was naive. I regret throwing all of it away. I had written an entire little notebook with a structured poem with about 30 pages. I wanted to make a musical album from it. A girl I showed it to, she liked it. I threw it away. Fuck.

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The taboo of non-existent parental love

Yeah, I know. If those people in the picture above were real farmers, their clothes would have holes, the fabric would probably be significantly fibrillating and they would be dirty. What you see here are just stupid actors.

Actors play out ideals. How it should be.

My mother claims she loves me more than any woman ever will. I do not believe her, because I do not feel loved. I do not love her.

My father is a rather distant, if sympathetic guy. He was not around when I grew up and he never expressed any kind of emotion towards me. I deeply wish that he would tell me he loves me.

But what if he does not? Hell, everybody keeps dribbling deep down, you love your mother. The truth is: Deep down, I want to massacre her. It is the law and a vague gratitude for my life that keeps me from doing it.

Just because you love your mother or because you made a mistake in renouncing her, that does not mean the same applies to me.

But these are the things nobody talks about. It is so unspeakable that people rather keep pretending to love each other their whole lives than to face the excruciating shame of emotional realities.

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