if only i were the wishing type, i’d be on about wanting to stay up even later, typing typing typing, or ideally involved in something else which would somehow still enable me to express my self without the tiny annoying tapping noises that might wake the sleeping forces outside of me keeping me now from saying, in fullness, what i am trying to say.
tequila helps. & if only i could hold my self to my new theme of social consciousness, & refrain from this descent into selfish subconsious nonsense, well, that would be good too. this would be a better blog for that, but alas, it is not.
as it is i am the embodiment of the spirit of all my own undoings, & this post will not deviate bravely from that, as most of the last few posts have attempted to do.
it is late. i am alone. any delusions of other than aloneness were purely that, & nothing further. i leave this note to my self to remind me of this, in case i wake from dreams suggesting otherwise. i often do that, you know. i live this life in my sleep wild beyond any i might hope to live awake. i have these dreams real as day, & you can not tell me they do not constitute an alternative to what we consider ‘real’ in the world. i have these dreams as tangible as anything, i really do. but it’s all impulses traveling down the synapses, everything is.
perception isn’t everything, it’s the only thing.
i have these dreams, you see.
& on occasion stay up ’till near dawn dreaming them across these keys, in a way that suggests reality but is decidedly disingenuous in doing so. & i am (in this case at least) not alone in this deception, inflammatory influences (for once) not all my own have driven these things to consume most of me & what i perceive to be my physical self. & this, i confess, is sweetness indeed. & for the moment, this moment & the ones just before it & perhaps just a delicious few more, this defines the concept of pleasure to me. but then again words are defined by other words, which means these feelings are as real as these words, & nothing more.
& so i tap them into being on these keys, in order that i may dismiss them like the dreams they are, no matter how well-documented their existence.
existence can not be documented in text, especially at this hour.
it cannot be put into words, & not just because words make typing sounds & it is not the time for that. mostly, it is because the entire pursuit is consumed, by its very nature. by futility.
words. that’s it. nothing more.