I am so tired. I don't feel exhaustion, live independently from it; I don't feel pain nor hunger. It is already so dark. Maybe a bit up North does it not feel dark so much. Words are difficult and tedious. I've been pushing everything further inside down, for now; so deep inside it has invaded sub-liminal zones, certainly taking there a life of its own. As if I was made of it.
I have this acute awareness to slip further down into nonsense and absurdity and that I have far too chances to be considered like properly mad and taken into some sort of mental prison where I'd be caged outside of myself instead of being confined inside. I know that I see everything deformed around. Which does not make me see things right.
Today was such a demented day. One shot of caffeine and my body did the rest. My eyes are far too wide open behind my sunglasses. I am spontaneously slightly hyperventilating and all my muscles hurt. Rushed. Dancing?
Is really the end of the world so close? There is war. There are Olympic games. It is intimately related. I feel like I'll suddenly stop walking, once, in the street, and that I'll shout my heart out among the frightened passers-by. Tear off my hair, the eyes staring at the unseen and rant about things no one will understand. A bit like in Twelve Monkeys. We would glue false moustaches to our faces and wear wigs. Or Wise Blood, but in another way.
Mind you, it's not as worse as when I felt so nervous that I feared I'd kill anybody by any brusque move of the hand.
I read somewhere about spiritual emergency crisis. I'll stick that to it for now. Spectacularly absolutely everything feels true. Some things are floating on the sea of absolute and contradictory truth, shining of a slightly more stable, solid light of trueness. I try to catch them when I see them, like brilliant golden fishes, into nets woven with words. I am piling syndrome upon syndrome. Impostor. Cassandra. Bipolarity. Maybe I am just a clown. Maybe I am someone else's dream. This would be nice though to stick to something for a while, just having an enough solid ground to bend reality again, and returning to a multiple-paradigm reality afterwards.
I recall a scene of a book, a fight involving a metamorphic animal, caught and struggled, and changing form every second to escape the grip, finally defeated and so exhausted it fell into its real, or most usual form--something of a certain trueness. So what is that so strong it survives desolation but faints before nothingness? A single star shining in the sombre sky, and a open wound I maintain open, as overwhelmingly strong in positiveness as in negativeness; it is the sweetest thing turned into a physical strain, innermost elongation, an ever-present dull pain; and would the inside world view be stripped off of all its unnecessary excrescences, the vague longing would ever remain. And as I toast to the past elusive moments of perfection and being-in-the-moment, to joy and inebriation, out in an alley impacted between concrete towers, in a party dress in the late afternoon, there is for an instant an unsubstantial shadow of happiness spreading over the scenery.
Missing from the deepest of one's heart, even in weird ways, even now withdrawing inside to the image of people swiftly bringing the picnic inside when the rain breaks, is the brightest sparkle of truth I could find. Shining like gold in the deep waters, or like a fallen star in the bottom of the sea. Some deep place nets made of words can hardly reach.
What's real is on hold for now, mending for the both of us; in the meantime, furniture and walls are dancing at the limit of my vision, and the back of the reality's skin is seething with energy.