Stream of Consciousness, right ways and wrong ways: [sentimental unfamiliarity]
Grey light and music with somehow nostalgic harmony, though still unfamiliar, and something aches to be expressed but I am still not listening, not remembering my dreams, burning the bridge that connects my two lives: waking and dreaming. I hesitate, repeat, hesitate to repeat, repeat anyways, disgusted with loops, nausea of the brain, and how many times have I said it before, and how many times again. Oh, well.. on we go. The aching cycle gets to its heavy part, momentum pulls it upward but as it reaches its apex it starts to slow, nearly stops entirely before falling back down with such shocking speed. Sometimes I have no idea what I’m saying but I say it anyway, and it’s fascinating to see what my mind comes up with when I’m not paying attention. “Write, child It doesn’t matter what you are writing, just so long as you are writing always. I assure you, your point of view will create something interesting even if you are doomed to always lack a certain skill.” I suppose stream of consciousness still has its value. I think, therefore I am. I write, therefore I exist.
People are so weird man. I try to interact and be all “what’s the worst that could happen?” but then really weird and often terrible shit happens and I just scurry on back to my hermit hole.