Perchance to create Dec 30, 2018   Art, Observations, Thoughts, Time, Travel

Self medicated sleep deprivation. I think I. Remember that it works. At least it used to.

It creates the illusion. Of quick decisions, a pretend-rational-bubble. It is a bit like being drunk on one’s own toxin-mix. Amplifiers can enter through the eyes, ears, mouth, skin. The possibilities are endless really.

One can tie oneself to a wall and try to paint with a horn on a steamy piece of glass.

Or one can be “present”, facing oneself, the many iterations of oneself; the kind, the child-like, the rebellious, the wild, the greedy, needy, deprived, depressed, disillusioned. They all show up eventually. And then the committee decides on words, sounds and actions.
To utter, to make and to take.

There can be waves of exhaustion, storms of confusion, microgravity lakes and expanses without anything that matters.

The work that comes back from that edge can be interesting and it can be good. But it still needs to travel back into the judgement of the well-rested, the well-fed, the well-educated and the well-versed.

The savage returning with spoils from beyond the horizon still needs to use the language that has been put on a leash. Language needs to serve; not run around naked; screaming and throwing the unspeakable.

Judging a fish on her ability to climb a tree is similar to that moment. The high court of the rational can only see what it knows collectively, agrees upon, has set. It only accepts what completes a picture, fills a void or the pocket or some other desire, or current and comprehendable need.

And yet a dot will likely never understand the line, the circle, the sphere, the foam, the orbiting worlds bursting into flames, creating the very smoke made of dots.

Time can seem to be like gravity. We are thrown against it from the moment we are born and then keep falling and falling all of our lives until we hit a surface that smashes whatever is left of us into invisibly tiny pieces. That is unless we manage to throw something, someone, some kind of idea away against it. If we are awake enough we can watch it float away, or sing, or sometimes even utter our name.

The light and the innocent travel well, the heavy and loaded often die before we do. The brilliantly simple can seem indestructible, it can calmly descent until some other iterations of us catch it and then throw it again and again into an unexpected direction. Flames or steam or planets and stars or all of the above.

Sleep deprivation was a thing. I remember. It worked. It created illusions of speed, the rational, the visible.

The longer I stare out of this skull of mine, the more it appears that we are indeed the dreams of others.
Eyes wide open, attempting to not yet sleep.

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