A Collection of Spectacles

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My views on dreams, as they have changed over time. 

In the beginning: Dreams happen infrequently. They are nonsensical, like collages of random scenes, carelessly pieced together. They’re meaningless to me. 

The second step: Dreams are seemingly random, but if deciphered, they reveal hidden notions I hold about myself, the people around me, my desires, my wants and dislikes. 

The third plateau (déjà rêvé): Dreams and their meanings become increasingly abstract. I’ll try to explain.

Something happens in front of me. A daily occurrence, say my friends are having a discussion. I stare, watching their faces, and like a picture coming into focus, what happens in front of me becomes clear. It transcends all we perceive reality to be and takes on a more picturesque, movie-like form. In the same way that film directors can take actual occurrences and make them more photographic, eyes that are open and receptive to the world can stare at a scene and make it more cinematic. Then, they can deem something that’s seemingly foreign to be  anything but, leading the mind to ask, “Have I been here before?”  In turn, the subconscious will provide the answer and it will rise to the surface of your thoughts with unparalleled buoyancy. The scene in question was something that was viewed before, if only for the breadth of a second, in a dream. 

A dualistic nature is revealed. The hypothesis proposed in the second step is affirmed as one purpose of dreams, but another, a more intriguing one is discovered. They are windows that, if peered into at just the right angle,  can reveal future occurrences (or rather, future possibilities). It’s just my thought, but maybe thats why it’s possible to feel as though you’ve already visited every place you still have yet to see. 

I’m unravelling, coming apart.

The plumes of a bird,

The petals of a flower,

The inner folds, 

creases

are detaching themselves from one another

my mind has come to bloom

im being honest here and nowhere else because if you cant be honest when you write then swallow ink and lead dismantle your keyboard there is no point. if you cant write even when it makes you look silly or stupid or hurt like your skins been slowly meticulously violently detached from each and every nerve ending then…theres no point in painting landscapes with words if theyre bound to be set aflame.

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More. Thoughts are stuck in my mind that must be let out. 

The following is a warning, a disclaimer:

I have studied the nature of life and found her to be fickle and untrustworthy. The only way to quiet her is to follow her every whim. To live, it seems, is to become one with subservience. 

When trapped between the tongue and palate of her most vile schemes, the only thing to do is to preoccupy oneself with the quest for happiness. 

I will travel to the depths of existence for this. But, if I reach the bottom without first finding it, then I will make sure that I scream the loudest on the way down. 

If at any time the sound becomes too harsh and grating, feel free to cover your ears.

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