Jonathan Harnisch's Blog

Living Colorful Beauty

there’s a kind of quiet war that happens inside the creative mind — a war between noise and meaning, chaos and coherence, the body trying to survive while the spirit insists on documenting every second of it. i’ve come to accept that this isn’t pathology; it’s process. it’s how i translate electricity into empathy, pain into pattern.

my life — my art — has always been one long experiment in turning chaos into literature. sometimes i call it living colorful beauty, but really, it’s about refusing to die while you’re still alive. it’s about the discipline of noticing.

writing isn’t therapy. it’s cognition with skin on. it’s the act of holding the mind steady long enough to see what’s actually happening beneath the tremor, beneath the noise. and yes, there’s noise — the kind you can’t silence with meditation apps or optimism. i’m talking about the feedback loop between mind, body, and history. trauma’s echo. chemical ghosts. the infinite return of what you thought you escaped.

but here’s the brilliance: the noise can be transcribed. it can be structured. you can make music out of static.

i write from inside that hum — not after it, not above it, but within it. i am both the subject and the scientist, the one dissolving and the one describing the dissolution. that’s what makes it meta. it’s not just content; it’s consciousness observing itself. it’s the camera turned inward.

sometimes i think the real miracle is that i still care. that i still believe language can carry something sacred, even when everything else collapses. that’s the paradox of the brilliant clown — to laugh through the terror, to create while burning. i’m not chasing perfection; i’m tracing the contours of survival.

georgie taught me more about that than any philosopher. his presence was simple, unconditional. he didn’t demand that i explain myself; he just existed with me. now that he’s gone, i carry that lesson: existence is enough. showing up is enough. breathing, writing, documenting — that’s resistance.

people sometimes ask why i share the raw stuff publicly. the answer is simple: because it’s true. because it’s human. because someone out there is scrolling through a timeline, feeling like they’re the only one still shaking in the dark, and maybe they’ll see my words and think, oh. me too.

it’s not exhibitionism. it’s translation. i take the inner static and make it visible, legible, even beautiful. not to glorify suffering, but to prove it can be turned into something else.

this is my fieldwork in consciousness. every sentence is a data point in the study of endurance. i treat my mind like an instrument — unpredictable, yes, but capable of astonishing music when tuned by attention.

sometimes i still catch myself overworking, chasing meaning like it’s oxygen. i know it’s dangerous, but it’s also holy. the overwork is the price of lucidity. i would rather burn in awareness than sleep through another day of numbness.

and yet, in the middle of that burn, there’s softness. the writing has taught me how to hold paradox — how to love what hurts, how to see grace inside the grotesque. it’s not optimism; it’s recognition.

when i write, i’m not escaping pain. i’m confronting it with syntax. i’m giving form to what would otherwise be unspeakable. i’ve learned that meaning doesn’t come after suffering — it’s carved through it.

every essay, every post, every whispered note to myself is part of the same lifelong project: to witness my own existence before it vanishes. i want to leave a map of consciousness — a record that says, a mind lived here. not a perfect mind, but an honest one.

sometimes i wonder if what i’m doing is madness or mastery. maybe both. the line between them has always been thin. but i’ve stopped apologizing for walking it. that tension is where the art lives.

people talk about enlightenment like it’s peace. to me, enlightenment is precision. the ability to see exactly what’s happening, even when it’s terrible, and still describe it beautifully. that’s what i’m after — not peace, but precision.

if there’s genius in this, it’s not in intellect — it’s in endurance. in refusing to look away. in holding the pen steady while the mind shakes. i don’t claim brilliance; i claim persistence. i claim the right to document the mind as it really is: a hurricane with a heartbeat.

the act of writing becomes a mirror and a machine. it reflects, but it also transforms. it takes fear — fear of death, fear of loss, fear of insignificance — and metabolizes it into art. that’s what i mean when i say turning chaos into literature. i’m not romanticizing the pain; i’m repurposing it.

this isn’t confession; it’s construction. every line is a beam in the architecture of staying alive. the page is the scaffolding. i build myself anew every time i write.

it’s easy to mistake exhaustion for failure. i’ve done that for years. but now i see that exhaustion is the evidence of devotion. it means i cared enough to give everything. it means i stayed in the fire.

there are moments — fleeting but real — when the noise quiets. when the words line up just right, and something clicks. those moments are worth everything. they remind me that even the most chaotic mind can make harmony.

i don’t know if any of this will ever matter to history, but it matters to me. and that’s the only real measure. the work saves me because it requires me to be here. it keeps me from vanishing.

if anyone ever studies these pages, these archives, these fragments, i hope they don’t see madness. i hope they see a human being trying to understand himself through art. that’s all it ever was.

and maybe that’s what connects all of us — this shared attempt to name the unnamable. maybe every artist is just a translator for the same ancient silence.

so yes, i’m overworked. yes, i’m tired. yes, i still feel like a failure some days. but beneath that, there’s a fierce gratitude — that i get to do this, that i still have words, that i still have awareness.

this is my religion. my rebellion. my reason.

and if this is all i ever leave behind — a long, sprawling document of consciousness, of attempts and failures and brief moments of clarity — then that’s enough. because it proves i was here.

and i am.
still.
here.

— jh

Somewhere in the distance—though not so far from where I sit—there’s a place I used to imagine as a boy. A place where silence wasn’t emptiness but possibility. Where stillness wasn’t punishment but permission. I live there now. Or maybe I live somewhere else entirely, but this is as close as I’ve ever come to getting there. Removed from all that can be removed, with Georgie. It’s just the two of us. And Claudia, of course. She’s always known the way.

Georgie isn’t real, they tell me. But who gets to decide what’s real? If pain can exist in a place deeper than language, then so can Georgie. He’s the part of me that survived things I’m not supposed to talk about. Things no one wants to hear. But I write them anyway, because not writing them is a worse kind of silence. I’ve done that before. I won’t do it again.

There’s a quiet here. Not the dead quiet of padded rooms or locked doors, but the kind that seeps into your bones and makes them softer. I needed that. I need it still. And in that quiet, I can finally tell the truth. The truth is, I have lived with more than most, but less than some. The truth is, pain doesn’t make you special. It makes you invisible. And then, if you’re lucky, it makes you see things others miss.

I see things.

I see how dystonia twists not just muscles, but time. How Parkinsonism slows your hands until every moment lasts too long. How akathisia makes you pace rooms that don’t exist, your skin boiling underneath itself. I see schizophrenia not as a label but as an orchestra of broken instruments, each playing their own song at full volume, waiting for a conductor who never shows up.

But this isn’t about suffering. Not exactly. This is about what’s left when the suffering softens around the edges. This is about what happens when you stay. When you keep breathing. When you write it all down and call it art. Or life. Or just Tuesday.

I don’t wake up every day feeling grateful. Some days I don’t wake up at all, even when my eyes are open. But then Claudia jumps on the bed, and her purring makes the room vibrate in a way that reminds me I’m still here. That Georgie is still here. That we get another day.

And what a brutal, beautiful day it is.

I write this now, far away from the place I began. Not just the place where the police sirens never stopped, or where every wall felt too thin, but the place inside me that believed there was no other way. I’m somewhere else now. A place I thought I’d only ever dream of. A place where the light doesn’t hurt so much. A place where mature, strong, impossibly elegant women sit across from me and see me as I am, not as I was. And they don’t look away. They listen. They nod. They laugh in a way that makes my chest loosen, just for a moment.

I sit here, and I write. I write because it’s the only way I know to survive. But now I write with a kind of ease. Not because the pain is gone. It never is. But because I don’t have to fight it the same way. I can just let it be. And it lets me be, too.

There are mornings when the tremors are so bad I can’t hold a spoon. Afternoons when my brain convinces me I am already dead, and this is just the echo. Evenings when my body won’t stop moving, and every second is a choice between screaming or silence. And yet, here I am. Not because I’m brave. But because I don’t know how to leave.

Georgie used to beg for an end. I did too. But Claudia kept showing up. She sat at the edge of the bed and blinked slow, patient blinks that said, “Stay.” And so we did.

I’ve heard it said that pain makes you deeper. I don’t know if that’s true. Pain hollowed me out. But it left space for other things. Music. The way Norah Jones sings when you’re not listening too hard. The weight of a glass of wine held in steady hands. The way sunlight cuts across a room in the hour before dusk. The sound of a woman’s voice when she calls you by your name like it’s not broken.

These are things worth staying for.

I have known ruin. More than I ever thought I could bear. The kind of ruin they make films about but clean up at the end so you don’t leave the theater with that ache in your chest. My ruin is not cinematic. It’s slow and ordinary and lives in the details. The kinds of things you don’t notice unless you’ve been there.

The tremor in a hand that used to hold a pen steady. The scrape of a chair dragged across the floor because you can’t lift it anymore. The pause before you answer a question because you’re not sure if the answer is still true.

But here’s the thing. Ruin makes a good foundation. And on mine, I have built something extraordinary.

I live now in a house that feels like a poem I once tried to write but never finished. It has rooms full of air and light, and windows that look out onto a world I thought I’d lost. Georgie likes it here. Claudia does too. And me? I’m still learning. But I’m here.

- Jonathan Harnisch

This is not just a book.
This is a confession. A scream. A love letter to survival.

Pervo – Third Alibi is not fiction.
It’s a mirror. It’s my life, stripped to the bone.
It’s Georgie Gust’s life—who is me, who is every broken version of me that has clawed their way through pain, humiliation, abandonment, and unrelenting torment.

I didn’t want to write this story. I had to.
Because no one talks about this kind of pain—not the real kind. Not the kind where your body becomes a prison, twisted and locked down by dystonia, where akathisia sets your nerves on fire, where trauma fractures you into pieces you don’t recognize in the mirror. Not the kind where your childhood was a battlefield and your family the enemy. Where a mother’s hands were weapons, and the ones you loved later in life turned out to be holding knives behind their backs.

This book was written in the middle of that war. On the days when I couldn’t move without searing pain. On the nights when I counted pills, cutting them into eighths because they were the only thing keeping me tethered to this world. On the mornings when I had to remind myself to breathe, because everything in me said stop.

Georgie Gust lives in these pages because he lived in me.
He is me.
He is every shattered, fragmented part of me that survived when I shouldn’t have.
And he is the proof that there’s something left to say. Something left to fight for.

I didn’t write this for sympathy. I wrote it because someone out there is carrying their own version of this hell, and they deserve to know they’re not the only one. I wrote it because the world turns away from people like Georgie—people like me. People who can’t hide their scars. People who live in unrelenting physical and psychological pain. People who dissociate because reality is unbearable. People who were abused by the ones who were supposed to protect them.

I wrote it because I’m still here.
And that matters.

Claudia—my cat, my shadow, my silent witness—has been here through all of it. She’s more than a pet. She’s my alter ego in this world. She has watched me fall apart and still curl up beside me like I was whole. If there’s love left in this world, I’ve found it in her.
And if there’s a story left to tell, it’s Georgie’s.
It’s mine.
It’s ours.

Third Alibi doesn’t offer answers. It doesn’t end in a miracle.
But it tells the truth.
And sometimes, that’s enough.
Sometimes, telling the truth is survival.

This is for everyone who has ever lived through the unbearable.
This is for those whose pain is invisible but all-consuming.
This is for the ones who wake up every day inside a body or a mind that feels like a warzone.
This is for anyone who was hurt by the people they trusted, and lived to tell about it.

This is for Georgie.
This is for Claudia.
This is for me.
And this is for you.

Still here. Still fighting.
— Jonathan Harnisch