Hurt Me One More Time

We KNOW nothing!  Nothing incorporates the intricately profuse lengths and breadths we go through to convince ourselves and others of just how ‘special’ we are, in addition to, in what manner we should be appreciated, loved, valued, recognized,  not to be taken granted and ignored. OH! How our emblazoned personalities so easily beset us.

Hurt Me One More Time, Please!  

These self-serving tactics of the ingrained personality fall on deaf ears when the canopy of inexplicable boredom and condescending depression envelop us.  These inadvertently cascaded defining impetuses are used as ‘red flagged’ prompts, in our soul, as another thwarted attempt, soliciting our undivided attention to arise from self-deprecating slumber!


According to Freud, (if one chooses to lend him any credence), the seat of the personality is found in the ‘id’, i.e. unconscious, which is the primary source of our underlying motivations. It is supposedly obscurely laced with innumerable facets of indeterminable problematic drives; desire being the principal instigator. Now, as far as I can determine, desire activates passion. With passion, ‘habit’, the irrefutable source of boredom, will not cohabitate.

 In other words, we are driven by forces we cannot possibly explain, excuse, defend or apologize for. When we contradict these unlikely culprits by refusing their incomprehensible impermanent entrance into our lives, we end up miserable and unfulfilled.

Hurt Me One More Time, Please!

Habit, we grasp onto, as an awkward unnatural endeavor, to ward off being exposed. Yes, exposed. We periodically, ever so briefly and slightly, see other unaccepted/discarded aspects of ourselves, in the wings, waiting impatiently and eagerly vying for bohemian artistic expression. How long we can hold them at bay is another topic of discussion, altogether.

The very root of our distinct personalities, along with the need for security and familiarity, are definitively tied to the pressure we assert on ourselves on trying to be identifiable as one who fits in with society: the so-called accepted conformist. What better way to achieve this unnatural feat other than to fall into habit?

Habit destroys personal integrity and in its place offers a cheap commodity of traditional approval.  No wonder we are bored out of our minds needing to seek material success, acclaimed status and recognized intelligence/beauty/fitness as a verifiable barometer of personal self-worth?


Our precious ruthless souls cry out in a desperate plea for demonstrable truth in action. Get real! Seek authenticity! Settle for nothing less than a ‘natural and convenient’ way of living. Our own sublime, sacred, sensual, sexual artistic expressions drill a deeply penetrative laser beam of innovative, revolutionary and cathartic energy.

IF we approach our lives in a truly passionate symbolic manner, using the god-given force (whatever that represents to you) to perpetrate a solidified measure of executive viability, we begin to truly live, unpretentiously. In other words, when we approach our exacting moments, including every single aspect, both organic and inorganic, as part of life’s puzzled configuration, then, habit flees and in its place, the character of an expiatory ritual assumes portent reign.

Hurt Me One More Time, Please!

In essence, what ultimately happens, we end up doing what was intended, no matter how it looks to us and others. We realize with full and unadulterated certainty, that our lives are spectacular parts of a unified ‘cosmic’ whole whereby we have not the ending chapter expressed beforehand. We are the walking/talking vehicles of the divine without procured purpose or designated design. 

Since we are all artists in search of our true art of manifestation, we must produce what we will, how we will and when we will for need of ridding our bio-psycho-chemical-mental-universal organism of extraneous gifts which would otherwise overwhelm and bore us.

Hurt Me One More Time, Please!