The Storm Planet

-The Storm Planet: Prologue

    It’s clearly a different story for the Vineyard, up in their aeronom, the Privilege. They fly above the infinite tidal storm, waiting for it to pass before setting back down for who-knows how many thunderless nights. Not down here, though. Down here, the Messengers count. One-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand. Always stay ahead of flashes, and you might get to flash your rear-end at Death.
    I remember playing in the thunderfruit fields with Thomah. If you clapped real loud, they might snap their hard shells closed to protect themselves from the storm. We’d just run around clapping, making patterns in the fields all day. It pissed the Cultivators Guild right off. That was before the Burn. That was when Thomah was still full.
    Thomah, Saeri, Corim, Luca, Joseli. They’re all empty now, ashes most like, with no amount of running left to conjure the sweetness of a distant rumble. They were unique, the lot of them, even special. I can’t remember their faces anymore, but I remember how intimately I hated each and every one of them.
    I remember hating Luca for stealing Saeri away from me, and I hated Saeri for loving that mindless confidence of his. They made each other miserable in the most charming way. I remember hating the way Corim chewed his dewroots, loud and mouth agape. He said it helped the flavor, which was impossible, considering they had none. I hated Joseli’s immovable mind, brilliant and right all the time and making sure you knew it. I learned more than I ought with her babbling on and on like that.
    Most vividly, I recall truly hating Thomah. He was idiotically brave, selfless to the point of exhaustion, obnoxiously determined, and my best friend. He went back for all of them. No matter how much I argued with him, he refused to accept that they were empty. I stood there, watching him jump back into the flames to find them, the two love birds, Luca and Saeri, the obnoxious chewer, Corim, and the genius, Joseli. Thomah walked into Hell for them, and that made me hate him most of all. My best friend, the selfless Thomah. I can’t remember his face. Damn him.
    When the Burn hit our Root, we weren’t ready for it. You set fire to the entrance of a subterranean encampment and you toss the hope of everyone out into the storm. Those monsters of the Uproot Faction only have the most simple and terrible option left to them: Do unto others as you’ve been done unto. It would’ve been hard to hate them, with what they’ve been through, but they made it real easy.
    Fighting an endless enemy is a tough battle, especially when that enemy is your home. It’s a terrifying thought, thinking the planet sustaining its people has inadvertently tried to kill all its children. Despite this terror, I find the greater foe, here, to be hopelessness. It’s usually in that state that you’ll find the cruelest of indifference. It’s a subtle change from fear to futility, but what comes after isn’t so subtle. The Uproots aren’t worth a true fight. They welcome death. You only run and run and run - run from them and run from the world.
    Truly, you’re either fleeing fire on the ground or fire in the sky. One of the only consistencies down here is that no matter which one catches you first, it will light you from toes to teeth. You’ll light, and you’ll end up empty. Everyone does. Thomah did, and I’m soon to follow. I’m just another nameless Messenger who’s given up on their title. I’ll never hear the sweet tone of Saeri, the arrogance of Luca, the condescension of Joseli, or even the mouth-full spattering of Corim utter my title again. No, Hebra was lighted with the rest. I’m no one now - to be remembered by not a one of them. I’m just a runner, a Messenger, carrying my own life from bare to bare, always counting, always watching the horizon, always waiting for my final light…

Fear isn’t an object.

I find it strange that people treat fear and anxiety like a thing, like a garment - something you can take on and off at your leisure. As though, a child alone in the dark has only to take off his fear and everything will be alright.

Sometimes you may receive a suggestion, “Just don’t let it bother you,” as though they just figured out, in half an effort of thought(and less time), how to solve years of mental anguish.

“Oh. I should just stop being afraid? My goodness, I wish I had thought of that. Then, perhaps this passive aggressiveness I’m feeling now wouldn’t be needed. Truly, great work, Freud. I’ve also been having this reoccurring dream, in which I punch you repeatedly in face until I wake up, but your face isn‘t your face, it‘s the face of a psychoanalytical Hitler. What do you think that could mean?”

Reassuring someone is entirely different than treating them like their fears are a pair of tight, green, pleather pants. It doesn’t matter how unrealistic the fear seems to you, it is so very seriously real to that person, and you should treat it as such.

Now, all this isn’t to say we can’t face a fear, or attempt to rebuild the destruction that has been done, or encourage a healthy thought life, but it certainly is to say that fear isn’t so easy to shed. For some, with serious mental conditions, it’s more like a padlock on the door of freedom in the mind, or a labyrinth to avoid getting stuck in by running far and fast from anything that might even whisper the prospect of fear.

As someone who struggled deeply for years with panic attacks and severe anxiety, I can say, do not belittle the struggles of someone else, simply because you don’t understand. Rather, I would encourage patience. Granted, this virtue is lost on the internet generation, but I assure you, it can do wonders in the realm of building relationships and rebuilding strength. Be patient, and love patiently.

That is all, internet.

I Am Automaton (script)

[ Watch video first http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mQ2gP6qbeE4 ]

Not long ago, I went through a long period of crippling anxiety and depression, which would eventually lead to a stint of extreme agoraphobia. I’ve been seeing a lot of joking and poking fun at depression, even comparing it to “sadness” in levels of severity. I made this video as an example of what depression actually feels like. I tried to think of a good way to describe my emotional state from back then, and the only thing I kept coming up with was the word “automaton.”

Definition of automaton:

A moving mechanical device made in imitation of a human being.

A machine that performs a function according to a predetermined set of coded instructions.

I remember the terrifying realization of my own mortality and my sudden need to repress any sense of emotion. I was mortified of death, yet I was pining for my own inevitable end - the only release from my personal prison. I simply continued on, because that’s all I knew how to do. I was an automaton. I could only imitate reality - act according to my set of human instructions.

I want to make something very clear: Depression isn’t sadness. More than anything else, it’s a lack of something - a constant lack. I wanted to feel nothing but misery. I only felt comfortable and only pursued and dwelled on things that would keep me in that state of misery. I grew accustomed to it and even longed for it. It lasted for years and destroyed relationships and tore apart any potential I had at growth.

Most importantly of all though, is the fact that I have recently overcome this depression, and my anxiety is now at a minimum. I have learned to control my thoughts and discipline my character, which has significantly changed how I act and react. I have moved across the country to pursue my dream of film - a feat I believed to be truly impossible for me. For those of you struggling with depression, I know, truly, your pain and how great it is. I pray and wish only for your success in fighting this wretched battle. May you find peace in your difficulty, knowing hope, which you may have thrown aside, isn’t an impossibility.

Here is the video script in full for anyone who wishes to examine it:

       I am heavy and passionless. Inside me you will find only cords and cogs and coils and cluttered contraptions. They turn and they function and they move according to the unimaginative design of a clumsy tinker. You will not find the rhythmic cadence of life, pounding against this metal frame. Nor would you find me wrapped in skin, knowing all texture with intimacy - glass, cotton, water, cold, hot, the subtle stealth of goose bumps from an unintended brush of skin. I do not know these. I am without capacity. I am singular in purpose, to function, to move, to fight ardently and endlessly with the master of moments. He holds the brittle hourglass, and with it, would have me end. There are none who move me, and I cannot be changed. My gear is unfixable, irreparable, able only to be dismantled. Tasteless and without texture, any sustenance is naught but modus operandi, made only to continue the drone of architectural existence. The systematic nature of my blueprinted fate is a reminder of the inevitability of my obedience, the futility of effort paraded as achievement. I question each step with profound restraint, but am unable to stop. Levers and cranks are turning, ever pulling toward the dark. Surrounded and drowned with life, I am in the totality of solitude. There are none who share my affliction of unavoidable continuance. I know not family nor friend nor colleague nor acquaintance. I have but one sensation, one elusive reminder of my own nature - a subtle remnant of regret. I AM, once and for always, moving in and of my own, neither to muster compassion nor love, nor wane preservation of self for any apparent altruism.

I am Automaton.