Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Stream of Consciousness (I)

People tend to lean back, relax and say that this is this and that is that. But then we take a look at a thing called memory and it didn't make any sense because it ain't in sync with a dream because, quite frankly, dreams are as vague as memories. We look at them and say, well, this appears to be quite vague, but this on the other hand, seems to be quite, fucking, clear! Negative sense, old friend. Now my main argument: I am sick of looking at the people I love and saying you could do better. I feel ashamed, like a pretentious cunt. Fuck. But what if they could do better? I have a weird point here. What if it is your love for them that fuels the degrading notion? See, we could simply be acting, somewhat unconsciously, in favour of...the sweet sound in my ears right now. A whole new point; your intuition was correct. It vibrates in my ears, swinging back and forth in the thick trees. This is it. This is how it must be, because you have yourself arrived here. I am aware, now, that this is simply jibberish; but look closer, look me in the eyes and tell me that this isn't happening? You have nothing. "High times," this song is called. Maybe I should have used a capital in "times". Shit. Where have we found ourselves now? Which planet now, old boy? Voice floats through me via me entire system of veins. Beautiful youth and innocence, but power and beligerence at the same time. I don't want to think about his death. But it makes me so sad. Didn't even know the guy; but you could say I did in a way. The music if friggin' loud! But it's in my ears, so it can't be heard by anyone but me! How's that? A little bit softer than the old stuff; but not musically, it's just the tone of his voice. Like a kid's defence mechanisms. But there's more to it than that, Chris; how can you type so fucking fast? Tell me that. It's like in every one word you have instilled a thousand meanings, purely to befuddle me. Jesus, man. What is it that drivs you to act this way, and is it within the normal realm, or the realm outside of your conscious experience. And then, looking about so spaced, he asked himself: what was it that I was going to type here as a question that was humerous? Phew. Glad that's over. How can you radiate emotion with your fingertips? I have seen them, the great ones in my realm, and I feel them within me, consulting my morality or my love - or my death. Something is happening here. It feels like wildfire, and I do not know what to tell people when their eyes beg me so conspicuously. You know what you're doing, but I feel as a human in Ancient Greece: life orchestrated by the gods. What is this strange thing we're in? And that I quote from the collective unconscious. I swear he had reason and a point; this is not to be overlooked. You know, originally, I was just going to stick to the one topic, but then of course my neuromodulators became altered; something was inhibited, or accelerated, and then I was right there, right where I am now. Dopamine is prbobaly involved. See, there are a few neurotransmitters that are involved in all altered states of consciousness. These are acetylcholine, dopamine, norepinephrine and another one which I can't remember quite now. All altered states. This means that what drugs essentially do is "change" our neurotransmitter intake or uptake, in an arbitrary way. Well, maybe not arbitrary, but similar to the changes that occur throughout waking life, hypnagogy, sleep and hypnopompy. So it's just a new kind of change, an unnatural one. But what is natural, or unnatural? Who are we to invest meaning into all things, like a wild tribe, like the savage past. How I would love to show people a display of myself, a person transmitting signals from the tabooed existential; like a primal person. A laugh, that would be! See, because people do not contemplate en masse. They sit back and are distracted, like other animals, and do not sit back and really think about the intricacy, inexplicability, awesome enigma of what it is that we're doing when we live. This profoundly acute glitch in thought produces some of the most awesome human affects known. Laymen do not feel that need to understand, to feel what it is when the wind hits. Who is this man in front of me? I see hands typing, but not man before them. Never will I be able to look at myself in the flesh? Fuck. I just had a fucked thought. I focussed in on the thought it my mind, the thought was of my eyes. Imagine, reader, your face. You have never seen your face. Ever. Your eyes, my friend, have never, ever laid eyes on your face. Or, for that matter, the back of your body. You have never, ever seen the back of your body. Most people, nowadays, would accuse you of insanity at this thought; but this is not a moral tug of war, it is an exposition. We seem to so often claim that what is real in the world is only real because it is observable and thus understandable. But what about ourselves? We cannot even look directly at ourselves, we can only scrutinise others with our gazes. what do we do in the face of this? No gin anymore! DO we pretend to be sane? The word that means loss of linear though (or some such thing)? I look around occasionally and think to myself, everyone seems, in a mysterious way, to be mentally ill-poised. They have a severe imbalance which impedes on their lives, but it's normal and accepted. So much pride. Why is it there? Humans seem to prefer dead bodies to conceding a point. I just thought of the love that stirs inside of me when I think of the pointlessness of a beautiful musician. I do not believe it. I know it is right, but I cannot believe it. If I did, I would see no reason to be here, owing to my inevitable destruction, so I would promptly leave. Or, as could also happen, I would fail to have the balls to leave. Oh, God; it's that masculine thing. Again, fucking evolutionary residue. Not my fault! But who am I to say. My leg hurts now, so I'm going to go ahead and sign off sometime soon. Nothing personal, baby. This one just ain't on the level. It ain't my fault.

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