Don't point at my impending death.
Do I feel restless tonight?
Sort of.
I can't sleep. I was trying for a while.
Perhaps I'm experiencing jet lag, but I'm not so sure about that.
I was reading a bit of History Man. What a lame title for a biography of such a great philosopher.
I was trying to do a little bit of writing. I did a little bit of writing.
I was lying in bed and I was thinking about dentists.
I was thinking about phrases like 'It will last forever'.
By which we often mean 'It will last for a lifetime'.
By which we mean 'it will last until you die'.
Death is an interesting thing.
I still wish that I was writing fiction sometimes. Or wish I could think of what fiction to write.
I sometimes wish I knew how to really write poetry. Or that it was a way that I could meaningfully express myself.
I was thinking about waiting earlier. Thinking about how I just have these ideas. I just have these feelings and then they come flying out of me. How sporadic and effortless my expression can be.
A pump waiting for a full well.
I'm approaching 200 posts on this blog. That is nice. I've made quite a lot of posts in the last three months. That's good.
What kind of space would I like to narrate? What type of personalities could I narrate?
I once had this idea about two sisters.
They were standing on opposite ends of a field of knee length yellow grass. They saw one another and started walking towards each other because they thought they might look better together. What happens when these two sisters meet one another? Perhaps the ground beneath them crumbles and they simply fall fall fall.
Fall into a pit of microscopic snakes that glow the palest blue they had ever heard of. They would call them 'pale blue babies'. They would ask one another about their favorite moments, about the craziest thing they remember their parents saying.
The one sister would say that she loved how their dad used to eat an entire cake in one sitting because he was afraid of storage, afraid of letting anything sit in the dark because it might ruin itself.
The other would say that she loved everything her mother did. She would explain how she used to want to be just like her. How she wanted to make cakes for her father to eat, or how she wanted to be the one that was strong and reliable, the one to know how to wash clothes and keep a family happy.
And then the tiny snakes would move towards them. They would quit speaking because neither of them ever liked blue. And because microscopic snakes tickle as they enter your skin. Suddenly your body feels like a series of tunnels that are transporting an entire army of irritants. A whole platoon of itchy and furious beings that want nothing more than to explore the parts of your body that you can only imagine; your pores, your hair follicles, your veins.
One sister would look at the other with the blankest fear that there ever was. And the other would begin to speak.
Haven't you heard of collective dreams? She would say.
And then they would both wake up. They would run through the hallways of their home and they would scream and scream about how they had a dream with the other one in it. They would delight in the fear that their minds had created together.
They would cry and cry and cry for the days when they remembered their parents.
They would grow up and become raging physicists who desperately wanted to understand how their minds had become the same thing as they fell asleep. They wanted so badly to understand the world that they had shared, that world where those pale blue babies tried to kill them through exploration.
And then I become my self again.
I forget these sisters and I ask myself what I'm doing?
Am I attempting to build some skill with narration? Am I trying to explore myself? What are these emotions?
All kinds.
All kinds found and created in the process.
To blend everything into everything.
To turn my fog into marbles.
To reach into myself and see what sorts of multicolored ribbons come out.
To grasp why fonts change, why lives change.
To be as weird as I can because I'm tired of not knowing what I am.
Yet wanting badly to ease my confusion.
Wanting for mindfulness to be compatible with thoughts of other times.
Wanting to even grasp and believe in these words I speak or write.
Everything eludes me in this dark room. No doubt. And I suppose I feel fine with it.
Mainly because a friend challenged me to accept the moment. And because I found it startling. I lost myself momentarily and I realized that time was pulling me from myself.
It can be hard when you enter a warp zone.
How to conclude this?
How to wrap up this strange series of things that has just happened to me?
I didn't mean for this post to shape up this way. It more so just unfolded as a series of things.
I think about what I wrote on December 1st. I think about how I challenge myself to be weird.
I wonder if this is weird or not.
I wonder what I'm capable of.
I wonder why I find it so appealing to hit enter?
Because I find aphoristic writing incredibly engaging.
The Trouble With Being Born is such an engaging read.
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