Good Lord

[Odin]

Its as though a billion synapses in my brain are all firing at the same time. Every possible horrible, and positive thing are run through in x2 fast motion and every possible turn, scenario and outcome are explored. I can almost see the world through fast motion. I don't even have to think of the words to type, they just magically appear as though from an already written page. All I want is peace and happiness. It feels as though the world is exploding into a microcosmic chaos. Dischord, is wrapped in muted tones. The skin surrounding my body is embelished in itchyness and feels uncomfortable to an unimaginable degree.

I wish for inky blackness, for sleep, for the desperate longings that the damned feel. I am one with a cursed variety, for things hum faster than the speed of reason should allow them too. I can tell myself that certain things are so, but at this time I question everything, and everything is up for question. There it goes again ever pressing forward into the abyss of unnatural awakenings. I pray for sleep, deep mindless sleep.

I could imagine all things at this moment. Almost everything becomes capable. I could write a 300 page essay on the pretend mating habits of marsupials without batting an eye right now. My entire brain is upon fire. A ceasless fire akin to an overdose of some kind of enigmatic drug. Ah to turn it all off, to finally slip into dullardum. Wish for it, pray for it, everything manages to stay away from the eternal grasp. Why at 12:05 AM? Why at anytime.

It feels as though it is a slow walk away from insanity. Men were not supposed to be able to absorb all the images/thoughts that happens during a period like this. It feels as though I could paint a picture, write a story, read a book, go running, bike riding, skiing, dancing. Anything but slip into that which I truly long for at this time, the blissfull release of sleep. To be able to contentedly slip into bed with someone who truly loves you and fall asleep to the rhythms of another persons breathing. Am I always to be afflicted with such an unreason.

My sister once told me that during a time in which I felt like this that I should harness the creative energy that I feel into an outlet somehow. So I attempt to do that, and in doing that attempt to not blast my every witness into the outer space of internetdom. Unfortunately I do not succeed. The wiring is so unimaginable. It could be triggered by all things, stress, anger, passion, frustration. Dancing on the razors edge of unthinkable fierce danger. It feels as though a danceable reel, a perverse mazurka of perilous free thought. A stream that if hacked into, would reveal all and nothing including every thought that I have ever known to be false and true. Nothing is hidden from beyond the veil of reason.

These words are almost non existant in the morning, if it ever comes. Perhaps someone else has written this within another internet site and I will come to visit them, clucking and muttering, this poor soul. What a fool, I shall think and we will come to visit that in another text. Another time and place in which I will have that discussion with myself and there in that will be exchanged a different set of ideals.

Of free flowing mayhem, of rampant dischord, of fullfilled diatribes. Grammarians would no doubt be shocked in the usage of pratical sentences, and such. However within those precious moments of myself talking to me, there would exist such a peacefull asthetic, as though talking through a heavily falling rain. Perhaps it was a grassy field, and a cloud lit tree. Alongside of which I had laid my umbrella, as the weather was pleasent but a short five minutes ago. There into the distance upon a park bench it was me and the love. There it was into a distance over the space of a million firing signs, and all that one could do was to stand and let those memories swell back. As though they were an ocean dedicated to the rememberance and de-rememberance of something great that had existed not but years ago.

Perhaps decades ago, or even centuries ago. Time does not exist within the mind, nor within the tricks of the mind. However those two upon the park bench do. As do I, sitting with my back against the bark of a tree blossoming into a cloud at the base of which little leaves had gathered as though they were blankets of hand sewn colorfull triangles. I can still feel the bark, as though a sharp point in the back. Similarities between the park bench and a tree that can still be viewed to this day. To sit back, to feel those things beneath you, to be carried away by the feelings of a thousand old memories. It was though it wasn't real, but I could see it all. Of course I could see it all looking through the non-wisened eyes or someone on a thread far different from those three figures. I could see it removed, as though a mirror was placed and all the acts were in reverse.

There it was again, except now the arm raises to the left. It curls around the shoulder and draws her in close again. I can still remember the smell and the color of her hair. Deep Dark Brown, just like the eyes. It was beauty. True beauty. Innocence and deep pools of true love. The kind that cannot exist but within. It wasn't right though, everything is in reverse. She slides to the left, as my back inches lower upon a molting maze of bark. It isn't a pile of leaves though, it isn't a quilt upon a bed. It is a floor of carpet and tile. It is an apartment 3 years from the former and quite 60 from the latter. Another stream, another time, another thread of thought that shall never exist. Perhaps it won't.

Perhaps when I open my eyes this time, I shall be old dreaming of once again obtaining all those things that belong to a younger time. I shall wonder of what happened when I closed my eyes and beheld another thread spraying into time. It was sinking, sinking ever so slow into that beautifull carpet of amber, yellow, nut brown, ash and red. Ever so slowly looking up from below, a carpet of falling colors to the top of a tree crowned with clouds. There is that umbrella, dipped into the scattershot pattern of fresh morning dew. Lillys everywhere, growing from a dark soil. The smell of bread and coffee of eggs and bacon. It's bringing another thought from another time. Looking forward to the past, and those eyes again. Ever trusting. Ever there within the memory. Always attempting to bring a sane life to a scattershot mind. Hoping and praying for noble reticence. Every feeling and motion keeps waves abreast in the ocean of missing threads. It laps upon the shores and retreats to a deep blue vastness of madness or mystery, as it were.

God for bed. To close the eyes and close the brain. To disappear scenes of nothingness. To disappear the firing thoughts of all things.

[meatdrink9]

Good read. We always called it 6 streams of consciousness.

[Rusty Nails]

Nyquil is like Odin-nip.