These entries are anachronistic now.

18 April 2015

I was going over some old notes on memory because I knew I needed to augment my turning point paper and I needed some ideas for additional content. I found some poorly written thing but it was too poignant to ignore and not think about and I think maybe this would be a good journal entry… Fuck. I don’t like editing and explaining myself. That’s why my paper was crap in the first place.  My ‘turning point’ isn’t a narrative on a major experience like prescribed, but rather a reflection on what brings reflection and what it feels like to travel through time in that way (for lack of a better term).   Probably, this entry along with the notes I discovered, would fit into that narrative assignment, but I don’t know. Last night I really wanted to write, to sing, to drink some wine and figure some stuff out.  I watched EastBound and Under episodes instead and revisited a certain part of limbo when I fell asleep…

Preoccupied with these unfulfilled desires, these cravings to create something even if it was as bad and shameful as everything else I’ve tried to do, then thinking of the pitying way I looked at my own soft-boiled soul, as if my soul and self were separate; the thinking me with this look in her eyes as if telling that soul with only a glance, that it would understand someday the purpose of its service. I wondered in polite disgust if I had been the one to put it in the pot in the first place…  What things do we give up for the comfort and accessibility of peace?  I didn’t want to protest, to explain myself, I just wanted to be this other part of who I am.  A silk sheet which weighs and wears like lead.  That’s what whatever this weak-willed submission to normalcy is.

Last night to fall asleep I took a few extra of my anxiety pills, not to kill myself or to mitigate some inalienable sorrow, simply because if I take two instead of one, I fall asleep more easily.  When the moony waters of it came to me at high tide it was in slow, abrasive waves, cold and raking; granules of dream-salts rhythmically embedded themselves in, allowing to be washed higher, closer, deeper… tracing and erasing crop signs on the calm of my sand-shoal-being until I was frosty and drunk from the osmosis of moonlight-in-maritime dreamscape.   And then my dreams came as shards of sullen ice, resentful that none could persuade my waterlogged (klonopin-drowned) thoughts to keep to their current, for my body was under this sheet of ice, the water in which I was immersed looked mineral-y, strangled…sometimes sapphiric, or fluorentine, or dusty. And these pubescent icicles of ideas never came close to navigating the throttled, rudderless, float of my sleep, but rather, left small breathing holes through the shelf between the air and me, so that, when I passed on from one idea to the next, my body would instinctively gasp for an urgent breath with my eyes snapping open in that painful way blinking happens on the early mornings in January in Mount Washington Valley.  I would see this veneer of a scene, a vignette of a thought as though it were being projected as a frame from a film of possibilities which exist in some way, or in all ways, in my head even if they could never occur.  I’d found some love letter, or I saw myself saying something in a place where I’d been absent, or I listened to my thought-self and saw her as a separate trapped me, that type of thing.

I went to look through my old notes on memories, on dreams, and I found an entry from exactly one year ago last night about this same type of experience.  And I wonder if I’ve stopped floating toward anything and instead I’m just drifting under this ice and maybe one day there won’t be anymore moody dream pieces to pierce my memory and let my soul breathe.