HOW I TRIED TO FIX MY HEAD
Pre-fixing: A QUIXOTIC MEMOIR
What's in my head, it's a miracle, a disease.
I don't remember when it all started. I never remember anything particularly like most people do. Maybe it was Nietzsche. Maybe it was Schopenhauer. Maybe it was that night I read Being and Time with a bottle of whiskey, reading along Bukowski's terrific fuck shit, and woke up feeling like I had personally lost the meaning of existence.
This is a philosophy of self-slapping. Have you ever slapped yourself for no reason, just to wake up your meditative station of sobriety? I have done it. I did slap myself just to feel alive. In this moment I can't trace the origin of this 'sickness'—memory's tender archive.
What did I take? My head was like inside the blender; every muscle of the cortex was having a nightmare on itself. It feels like I am giving greatest obeisance to katabasis, to chaos—to venture something forbidden.
I saw her for the first time in a tobacco store, hand shivering a bit from withdrawal tremor, or maybe cold turkey shivers. Anyway, I saw in her hand Being and Nothingness. Yes, it all started from the tobacco store. The queue was way too long; I was just behind her, seeing her quivering hands.
At first, philosophy was a weapon for me. Let me introduce myself here in this morbid sentence: I am nothing. Full of shit in my head—a Molotov cocktail for the mind. I wanted to burn through the illusions, strip away the bullshit, and find something real beneath the wreckage.
But the more I read, the more it felt like I was jousting at ghosts—a modern-day Don Quixote, charging headfirst into a windmill of abstract concepts and existential dread.
This is the story of how I tried to fix my mind with philosophy and psychovarium and ended up more insane than before. I was a normal person once. Or at least I think I was. Memory is a fragile thing, like a spiderweb in a hurricane, and I can't trust it anymore...
