1. Retreat into a comfortable mental zone. Maybe one layer down. Think of a tree. A single trunk from which all branches grow. Sturdy, Dependable. Organic.
2. The towers stretching into the sky – human constructs – now gone. Melted away and replaced with visions of an unbound realm.
3. Escape from Space.
Threads floating about in the sky like the web of reality is coming apart.
Monetise the Eschaton.
Synchronicity in a book I picked up at just the right time for it to be useful: the fire of teenage emotion.
Intuition brings me home.
Something strange is happening. Like I’m remembering someone I’ve known for aeons, an intimate knowledge, though we’ve only brushed past one another in this lifetime.
Warming of the soul. Wisdom in a beanie hat.
Dream Odyssey by MONO.
A freshly rolled cigarette. Rainfall on tarpaulin. A wooden bench. A symbol that may be Neptune. No, Psi. Waves, either way.
Dark spiralling tunnels. I send a message.
I feel sick, unearthed.
The heightened awareness that comes with aloneness and sleep. The fear slipping through the cracks. Threads bleeding out of the shadows, through skin and into veins.
Cells multiplying at an alarming rate, growing the shadow sporadically in all directions before it recedes back into itself to try another shape.
Not only zeros and ones, but everything in between. Nuance. Irrationality.
Tesselation on the edge of vision. Trails from one train of thought blur into another. I see your face, white against a black background, overexposed. I put down my phone, and I carry you into the book I’m reading. You are in the narrative, your screaming mouth in between the lines that tell of a robot becoming self-aware and frustrated. You bleed into an assembly line waiting to be commanded. “No one is going to take my soul away,” you say. But you cannot know the future, and that’s what makes it different from the past.
I dream of a tattoo studio. Always the same one, though I’ve never been. I dream of carparks and architecture. Bridges I never cross.
“Where will I find the time?” Like it exists somewhere in space and is merely hiding.
We are time.
Buildings include all those who reside in them and exclude all those who don’t. As I walk among them, I understand I am no one.
“Intermittent inhabitants of conventional reality.” From Perdido Street Station.
A simulation of my own making (in reference to the map of the external being a blend of taught and experienced associations). A framework for the mind. A gear for it to grip. Oh, but the beauty of a mind unhinged and allowed to roam free of the map!
It has to be controlled, though. Monitored. Or those fuckers would leave her to rot.
I’m trying something out here. Looking for patterns, rhythms and connections in journaling and beauty in fragments. I’m looking for the point at which communication breaks down between writer and reader, where intrigue fails and where the key to subjectivity may lie. I join personal beats with character perspectives and notes for plot, as ever to play with the boundaries between fiction and reality. I’m looking for the line to ride.
The photograph in the header is my own. Sky like sea.
C.R. Dudley 