Jonathan Harnisch's Blog - Posts Tagged "trauma-and-art"
The Art of Staying Conscious Jonathan Harnisch (Georgie Gust)
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
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
