The poetic animus appears in a dream, just out of reach. Images of elevators flash into my mind. I project them like ghosts onto the big screen.
If you tell someone you’re going to do something, while subconsciously projecting animus upon them, it will almost certainly happen.
“I’d kill to relieve the burden.”
Ah, the non-linear timelines of consciousness. Rhythm in the chaos.
It’s not that I don’t have memories, it’s just that I don’t always know which ones to trust. Some are indistinguishable from fantasy. Shifting. In this way are they false or merely disguised? This kind of inquiry is how I ended up in the clinic, I suppose. They have to take care of you if you don’t know who you are. If you have an unstable sense of self. Is that because the world is dangerous for me or because I am dangerous for the the world?
Since my mental health has improved, and I’m seeing what it is like to live outwardly, I finally understand that not everyone dives their own depths each day. Not everyone knows what it is to continuously converse with the symbolic, for dreams to be as real as the table I write at. For them to mingle, uninvited, with so-called ordinary thought. And so these systems may well be interesting to others in a way I previously considered too obvious, too dully subjective.
Their formations are not at all standard, though, and neither are the boundaries they cross, nor the blankets they weave. Expression of the surreal doesn’t come naturally to everyone. It is not universal. So it is okay to lean into that intuitive sense as an art form; possibly the only art form that truly sings in my soul.
I was anti-diagnosis for such a long time, but it turns out that having the right diagnosis can shift the mindset in ways I never thought possible. I’ve acknowledged that which lurked in the shadows, and immediately I breathed fresh air; I tasted what life can be like beyond the shackles of demons.
So, write the integral.
That quote from the Guardian article.
Things are only passé if you believe trends are important. Subjectivity is not a thing that can ever be passé.
The overall wave, each person a droplet.
Faces of friends in marble-effect linoleum.
Liminal [comfort] zones.
Stills of people falling, limbs flailing.
Moments of lucidity.
The misfortunes of others.
What passes for entertainment.
The warmth of the sun.
Would-be circles whose lines never quite meet.
Names of warriors.
The shape of words.
Dissolve into poetry.
I’m trying something out here. Looking for patterns, rhythms, 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’m freeing myself up. I join personal beats with character perspectives and notes for plot, as ever to play with the boundary between fiction and reality. I’m looking for the line to ride.
Header image source: Pixabay