Time Heals All Wounds.. And Then Kills the Patient
<Previous Next>
Dawn
Dawn
Mon Sep 24 02:13:20 2001
Whispers from Infinity
Topics:

"Please don't stop writing, it's all I have left"

Reality is like a thief that feels guilty and occasionally returns the goods I always have had a fear of batteries. Sort of.

I am too self-aware. My mind's predictive engine keeps bringing other possibilities to me, other things that might have or might be said. I become aware of what it is to lose a loved one, and I can barely hold back tears. I feel the pride of having a child to extend my self. I understand the clear and happy patriotic soul, innocent of the need to work to be a good person. In understanding others, I perhaps feel too deeply. I hear a constantly shifting set of conversations, some with an alternate version of me, some with others. Pronouncements, declarations, apologies. Each possibility is just a little too real for me to pass over it without impact; there is too often an emotional connection between my speculative and actual self, even though the actual state changes are merely a simulation. In my wonderings and mental self-exploration, I think I might have a 'feel' for exactly what processes keep me sane. And like certain other processes, there's a certain amount of strain in maintaining them. (Can't I just rest?) What would it be like for me to let go of that. Would I be able or want to pick it back up (so very tired)? (Possibility of new style)

I wonder... from some perspectives, my mental state is not very real, at least my conceptual grasp of it. My description of my (shadows of conversation) internal state has little reality except when it produces an effect, and is not real as such (cheating?). (Impressions). This seems to be the beef (reuse) between some schools of psychology. How real is what I seem to 'feel' in my mind? Am I and in what flavour am I deluding myself? Is this what fallacy feels like? (Am I being honest?)

Strange mood. Anger, self-disappointment. Fear of Wally leaving me. Consolidation. Dr. Forrester is on antibiotics. I really must stop writing here when I am so tired. Well, to be honest, when I'm producing such odd stuff. I'm always tired. Different ways, different flavors. (Alternate: I don't know if I'm being honest, am I just showing off? Decision not to produce. Giving this up.) (Reject Alternate) Perhaps I am recursing too deeply in my self-examination. Interpret me as you will. How much is poetry How much is phrasing How much is accidental