I was going to say something along the lines of... no. Always some sort of slave to my creativity, I meander through my thoughts, looking for the exit. It's always behind me, no matter where I turn, so I simplyl forge ahead blindly hoping for the best, expecting only the worst. Something tells me that there will be no santa claus.
My eyes, glued to my eyelids when I close them. I remember that there once was a woman who put nail polish remover in her eyes when she mistook it for her contact solution. I almost know how she feels.
The time is 3:03, and no, it's not in the afternoon. If it was in the afternoon, I would be sleeping.
Do you exist? Do I exist? I am a figment of my imagination.
I have much work to do by the time monday rolls around. None of it will be done. If it were, would I have been the one who did it?
If I am the kind of person that does not do his work, and that work were done, then obviously it could not have been me that did it. It would instead have to be someone else, using my body. The next step, therefore, is to find who it was that is controling me. This is the hard part. I wonder if I ever controled myself. The answer is yes, because otherwise the person who would control me would be me. In essence, no-one knows anything at all, but fewer admit it.
The human condition is to deny that flaws exist. Having said that, am I not human? No, because by questioning, I make myself inhuman, therefore I must have been at least partially human. I am part human and part reality, the opposite of the human deception.
Alice. I never dream. I can't. Am I inhuman? I have one nightmare. A non-existent desert where energy lies and is impossible to be. Black and white, swirling shapes. Then an all overwhelming white. A feeling, a sensation of tactile existence. The ridges of a fingertip, magnified to gargantuan proportions.
To dream is to live, and I am dead. When did my dreams exist, and why? Have I obliterated them with my handling of the fragile thing that is sleep? My eyes burn and confirm.
The night is my time winter and summer. In the winter it is clean solace from the polluted existence of the day. In the summer it is the cooling balm of summer breezes and leafy whisperings. Sometimes that existence cries out to me in tongues, laughing at my ability to understand which lies coupled with my lack of the power to act. I wait, wondering always, immersed in ecstacy of night.
Day is the time of Complications. Here my creativity that nightly rises up with giant's strength to the cup of the sky and opens it to let the wind of reality flow in, is stifled under society's bulk, suffering with ill hidden promises of revenge. Their life seems petty and fildegree when compared to my solid and malleable imaginings.
Perhaps it is my ideas themselves which hold dreams captive. I dream while awake, never halting the flow of complete examination. I would bottle this freedom that I have now and open the cork sparingly during the day to let out a simple bit of ecstacy. Sometimes I seem to be insane to myself, and then I know that all the rest of my existence I am as well, I just do not acknowledge it.
I embrace opposites, finding that they create the best of combinations, despite the effort involved.
The time is almost gone, and yet I know that I am still time on time for all time.
Hideous, dastardly, deadline. Why the morbid facination with killing time. I do not want my blood on my hands. You say you kill time, but you kill me, I kill me. Forget time, disconnect, forget everthing that is almost something, because only nothing can come close to truth.
The truth is only the truth, nothing more. It cannot heal those wounds, only expose and inflame them. Only in deception, imagination, true truth, can one see.
If the truth behind a lie is the truth, then the truth behind the truth must be a lie.
Perhaps.
The wall.