A Collection of Spectacles


Written on an Airplane: 30,000 miles high, 500 mph. Houses, trees, and plots of land form intricate images and shapes. When designing such layouts, did landscapers and architects ever think that one day the full weight of their work would be viewed from aerial heights? Cars on highways look like ants trapped on mounds of dirt, or on a more abstract scale, like blood cells as they travel through the capillaries and veins of the body. Plowed fields, buildings, and backstreets sometimes twist and turn, resembling the compact coils of the intestine, creating mock images of the folded up tissue of the brain.

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Ridiculous Rambling, or a Stream of Consciousness Post: I’m going to write this without going back and fixing anything. I am going to write this without making any corrections or edits. I think that I don’t do enough thinking just for thinking’s sake, and that’s why it takes me such a long time to do anything correctly. By the way, this is all going to sound pretty stupid, so if you don’t want to read anything that sucks then stop right now. I’m only doing this because I’m messing around with different techniques. I’m trying to explore different things as a writer. It’s weird how someone can randomly call themselves a writer or an artist. Those are two of the only professions that you can do that with. You can’t wake up one day and say, “Hi. I’m a doctor now,” but you immediately become an artist the moment you say you are. Peter asked me if I feel like I’m in some sort of crisis, if I feel like some horrible happening in my life brought me to his office. I figure that my crisis is life in general. I think about it a lot, and the more I think about it, the more disgusted I become. I don’t get why other people don’t think about life, how you can go through it without ever wondering why you’re here. Anyway, I’m done talking about myself. I feel like I talk about myself too much. I’ll try talking about less me related things in the future.

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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, 


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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i wish i possessed the ability to look inside myself and piece together one unified whole. currently, the space that holds each part separate is filled with doubt, uncertainty, and a certain amount of contempt towards the future. i am anxious. i’m having trouble waiting. i want things to be different. yet, i’m dreading it at the same time. 

attaining what you want most in life requires that you openly allow what you’re asking for to happen. inside there is still a small trace of reluctance and this could be the cause of everything. 

or. maybe. 

i don’t have conventional expectations. it’s possible that i’m trying to fit myself into a lifelike reenactment of some offbeat play that depicts exactly what i think i should experience.

i enjoy flirting with debauchery from time to time. i like having small doses of instability in my life. thus, i secretly long for the type of person who possesses the ability to push me to my emotional brink but, of course, obtaining this unique brand of affection can have horrible consequences. forcing myself towards some sort of standard doesn’t work either. i end up more vacant than when i began. the current remedy is to do nothing, pocket away my passion, and smother it until it turns into nonchalance. i’m aware of the fact that the options i’ve currently placed before myself don’t solve anything. 

i did, however, lose my appetite today. maybe this is a sign. 

claire told me about the nature of butterflies.

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