I am fond of the feeling I get when after being bed-ridden for about a quarter of an hour I stand and slowly feel the blood rushing from my head. It flows down like a gushing wound's waking consciousness and there is only me watching it breathe for the first time, the languishing self-awareness is sufficient to rekindle my connection to Earth and bring the fantastic ideals, the unrealized romances, the ornery dispositions, the austere ideas and my childish infatuations crashing to a soundless halt. I want to be mad, to be in the throes of the aberrant and cull from the sublimely beautiful crux of a stranger's heart.
Sometimes I really do think there is something ever so slightly wrong with me.
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I have been sitting in the same position for 5 minutes memorizing the patterns painted on my wall. I think of changing the world too, and though my thoughts race in the neural pathways of my mind like particle collisions at the speed of light, I cannot even pull together the space that separates your strangeness and mine. Space continues to expand, time continues its unilateral and entropic flow. My wall has no new patterns for me to follow.
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