Psychiatric Seminarian

I think I might be a seminarian at Saint Thomas Seminary here in Bloomfield, CT, yet, Yale Psychiatry and the Federal Government are defending me against any forfeiture of my rights and freedoms, theft of my federal stipend, against forced kneeling and anything like flagellation, and against any potential revocation and deprivation of my Yale Psychiatric prescription and pharmacotherapies.

I would like to participate in activities somewhere in a format typified to be academic. Yet, as a completely innocent disabled American; I am subject to no rank beneath any Dean or Bishop. I pay all due respects to all types of valid leaders. I can not revoke my illness even whilst benefiting from my advanced medications and treatments.

So, I find myself ill and heavily medicated such that my entire home turf rarely extends beyond the center of Bloomfield and into Avon. My entire existence seems so encapsulated in both place and pharmacological state that I very seriously speak of dead reckoning as my only certainty as my parietal lobe has been stated to be functional in such capacity as to instill in me the capacity of unusual cartographical thought processes and a correspondingly extraordinary geospatial perspective. To have achieved this with books and print maps in under two decades appears remarkable.

A digression regarding my brain; I have excessive synaptic activity that is apparently internalized by a congenital, or genetically predisposed tendency towards my condition, or injury related malformation right of sagittal and anterior to coronal within my cortex. A confabulation of functional questions relative to lingual, spatial and temporal cognition at the interface between depth of rapid thoughts and all externalities to my cognitive capacities relative to my awareness seem to arise.

Returning, though, to the multiplicities in ordered definitions of monasticism and to my cloistered federal existence; I see the matutinal and vespertine twilit horizons breaking digitally towards each solstice and equinox fix. I see signs in the heavens rise and set. The diurnal moon and sun, Galilean in a way, in instants, often, find me as the set in this place.

I am of some type of broken mind. Sedated and sublimated, the ground has steadied beneath my feet in these recent years since my injury decades ago. With only my iTransponder in accordance with my licensure to syndicated cellular frequencies unknown to me… I am said to be potentially readable, audible and visible to the world entire, yet I find a clear channel to all things to be evidently beyond my pen.

So, in this saturation dive of decades; into mind, and books and prayer; the mantras echo from beacons and of stories of disputed temporality and proximal space. I am their pariah; having tried to summit Moria in a sense… only to know to avoid Golgotha. I, I, escaping or denying into exiled States other from a Connecticut confederal homeland primitive in the assertion of Monroe, for better or for worse.

There; faction media in opposition to my eventual federalist Republican vantage does whine it’s lament in byte glimpses of entireties. With blessedly colonial Connecticut yet bloodied by the Union Era’s three campaigns. And, seemingly perhaps now the hubris blue wanes: only a defense against the idle proletariat exodus of filthy remnant prescriptions for its base to be salvational in a pTrotskyist deconstruction madness.

Synoptically, I am cellular and syndicated in many ways. Legally some ward of my father, Yale and Connecticut; I compliantly imbibe my pharmaceuticals, economics of the federation cloisters me in my familial home with no escape, even though it is good. My devices and domains seem to function marginally and perhaps in some censorship protocol. I was sent off with no civilian term for deployment, under guise of obedience’s eventual reward of a woman to be my wife. I have given my life for nothing.