Delirium and the Sunset of the Mind

A while back, I experimented with Aristotle’s method to induce lucid dreams, and recorded the thoughts that came to my head. I fleshed them out a little bit afterwards. I’m going to break it down by paragraphs, and just add some links to provide context behind some of the word choice.

“What do we say and do that’s so original all the time? If all art is a remix then can we really leave an impact unto the world? I suspect no, for it is difficult and obsessive to dedicate life to anything other than love: this primal emotion and universal force that makes us collide with everything and everyone.

I guess in a way we should simply recognize that others also feel pain and have dreams, which makes us more alike than different, and should bring us closer to one another. Brotherhood or humanity, whatever you want to call it. It’s an excuse to think collectively when deep down we seek to live individually.

What barriers can really be left if no one else seeks to triumph existence by means of effort, however valiant, to overthrow death’s imminence as the burden we each carry on our journey amidst life. In a way the universe is a tender embrace, carrying us child-like into the original void. No, not the maternal vagina but the construction of beginning, where all existence starts and takes place.

In this way dreams are a trippy experience we get to enjoy constantly until Morpheus takes us up is his own embrace. Ironic how we gaze at the stars, completing ourselves into the astrological masterpiece that is our cosmos, but yet forget the poetic beauty of our abstention from reality by means of dreaming…fulfilling and adventuring into the deep space within our minds, inside our subconcious, where we get to be exactly how we want to be even though we are not in control.

The plot-twist in it all is thus the freedom in our lack of control and so on, we are a living contradiction, unique in what we are contradicted by. A product of a process, the result of mystical equation where our will gets transformed into something we are not the creator but the igniter of. Its the passion, the movement within the lines of our great painting that trespasses awfulness into madness, and walks back into imagination and sadistic portrayal.

It just sounds nice, and it’s nice to know that the abstract experience of a painting sticks with us because it’s experienced overwhelmingly at the same time, unlike movie that plays in order, whether linearly or disjointedly. But that’s how our subconscious, neural system works: we jump from creation to imagination in a manner of seconds, yet observe the larger picture of it all without fears and concurs of temporality. Fuck that anyway! if we worried about time what would that even mean? that being and life are insignificant compared to the larger length of the wider universe…but then again if we universilized such maxim where would be? Motionless yet not in the same place, for the act of resisting gravity is an act of will and an effort to consume energy to reject the order, swimming into the disorder.

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