Imagine. You wake up on the first day of the new year, number 13 and 2 thousand since, roughly, somethng truly awful, you are in some kind of very detatched trance. Comatic, maybe. But functioning in some way and when clicking in to function for a short time in the most limited sense, unfortunately, you're not aware then of the original situation.
And so the machinery, cogs and wheels, of various comatic states click in and whirr away, one subsuming as the next drops like clockwork, each detatched from being with them the awareness of the coma itself. Like then you're trying. Because everything's all right isn't it?
That was me today, and many days. Today was kind of worse than normal, maybe much worse. I didn't go out revelling. My mother had promised to take me out for a Christmas dinner, and I was ill on Christmas day and before, stuck in bed at home in the "sticks", when I'd intended to come to the city to stay at my mother's place. So the Christmas dinner out happened last night, NYE, nice French restaurant, nice food, relaxing, and I am glad I was too ill to go to a club or whatever and drink lots. Two glasses of the house Chardonnay and an attempt at a beer when I returned (it didn't work), early to bed after strange uncontrollable movements, and I was pleased I didn't try to effect some kind of expected mental pleasure mechanism for expectations of the cross of the year time. Just so that a tradition is a tradition or something, because, subconsciously, people get killed when traditions die and one is always to blame for the potential of a tradition dying.
My main point of this post was to write the title, a little about me, but actually most not about me - yes, about me, not what I've written so much, but about anyone and every one. Think of what it means. Go deep. Especially think of paranoia and categorical errors, paranoia and loss of identity and the strange balance of wanting and trying to be on track or recover with knowing effecting that or "indulging" in that or getting swept away by that can be the problem itself or the hiatus of a problem that maybe otherwise wouldn't matter.
Think about this.
Think, maybe write thoughts:
Are you running around (or lying still) "like a chicken with its head cut off?"
Stop, relax, think. About you. About others. About everything.
Take a whole year.
Maybe, be aware you can be aware at some point - don't think this stops, either. Maybe.
A network contact wrote this today:
"a new year is like a blank book. the pen is in your hands. it's your chance to write a beautiful story for yourself."
And so the machinery, cogs and wheels, of various comatic states click in and whirr away, one subsuming as the next drops like clockwork, each detatched from being with them the awareness of the coma itself. Like then you're trying. Because everything's all right isn't it?
That was me today, and many days. Today was kind of worse than normal, maybe much worse. I didn't go out revelling. My mother had promised to take me out for a Christmas dinner, and I was ill on Christmas day and before, stuck in bed at home in the "sticks", when I'd intended to come to the city to stay at my mother's place. So the Christmas dinner out happened last night, NYE, nice French restaurant, nice food, relaxing, and I am glad I was too ill to go to a club or whatever and drink lots. Two glasses of the house Chardonnay and an attempt at a beer when I returned (it didn't work), early to bed after strange uncontrollable movements, and I was pleased I didn't try to effect some kind of expected mental pleasure mechanism for expectations of the cross of the year time. Just so that a tradition is a tradition or something, because, subconsciously, people get killed when traditions die and one is always to blame for the potential of a tradition dying.
My main point of this post was to write the title, a little about me, but actually most not about me - yes, about me, not what I've written so much, but about anyone and every one. Think of what it means. Go deep. Especially think of paranoia and categorical errors, paranoia and loss of identity and the strange balance of wanting and trying to be on track or recover with knowing effecting that or "indulging" in that or getting swept away by that can be the problem itself or the hiatus of a problem that maybe otherwise wouldn't matter.
Think about this.
Think, maybe write thoughts:
"This mess we're in ... "
Are you running around (or lying still) "like a chicken with its head cut off?"
Stop, relax, think. About you. About others. About everything.
Take a whole year.
Maybe, be aware you can be aware at some point - don't think this stops, either. Maybe.
A network contact wrote this today:
"a new year is like a blank book. the pen is in your hands. it's your chance to write a beautiful story for yourself."
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