today (Fuwsday), is another day... I would say that I am awake, however awake is a relative term... I am here babbling, semi-conscious of my awareness of the fingers tapping on the keys and producing words on the screen that somehow tie together into semi-coherent sentences (that run on and on) and the collaborative efforts of all the words might convey some sort of message that may or may not be part of the plan, but I am also remotely aware that I am sleeping so deep that I am not even sleepwriting (that is, I am not letting my subconscious dreams and heartbeats find any sort of voice... except the whining found here, that is) which means, for those of us in the know, that I am so far away from my self (core, anima, child, etc) that there is serious probability that these words are not reflective) no less representative) of the truth within the identity of the writer...

the writer?...

heck, we have not even heard from the babbler in years...

meanwhile, thousands of messages are bouncing at a couple of my oldest addresses every day (which means those who knew me when who only have those oldest addresses because they were the only addresses I had when we were in contact in that time before I had a web world) are lost at sea (I know you are but what am I) because I am lost in space (I know I am but where are you?) and not even cleverness can survive forever without some contact with the known...

perhaps what is required is for me to finish the final book in The Dark Tower series (but there's never enough time for me to give myself the attention I require, so there's not enough time to give attention to other writers or activities or anything else... still, I'd drop everything {and I mean everything} for the one one who knows what I mean... sigh)...

do you really feel like anything belongs to you?...

did you ever?... I did... and that feeling of mine, albeit may have all been illusion, was a treasure of pleasure... and it was momentary in my mind, for I have always accepted the reality that everything can change and does every moment and in the next moment I might not have what I treasure and could even be dead, but that doesn't change anything about the pleasure of the moment... of having... of enjoying... of feeling the music or meal or book or experience actually belongs to me... of feeling the moment is mine...

I have not felt that as often as I used to of late... my sensory awareness has been reduced to base reality, so I possess nothing but what touches my senses and even my imagination is no longer mine from this perspective... this is why I focus on food so much, for the taste is the momentary experience I can call mine... who can follow this line of reasoning or understand that example, I wonder...

and I come to the realization that this body is not mine these days... not in my consciousness... no wonder I do not care for it as I used to, as I could... no wonder I sit around wallowing in disassociative apathy and faux despair allowing myself to be distracted by the superficiality of TV shows and the interests and concerns of others virtually all the time instead of taking just a little of this time I watch TV or listen to roommies for myself to do exactly what i want to do... like find the writer again...

like find me again...

you (now here) may remember what this feels like... and you and you and you(now here (who reached from depths into depths as Anais Nin and others have)... and you... and you (though you hide is so well in cleverness), at least I thought you did... and you (so inspiring, I look forward to your published works and you know I hung on to your light for it is so beautiful)... fact is, I haven't been back to check on most of you in many months... and there are many others (from top to bottom) who are not listed in profiles for nothing, you who have touched me through words when I might have actually been close enough to the surface to know I was touched... and your phone calls are not forgotten, even if they are not to come again...

and while I admit my interests (especially recently) are very much influenced by romantic dreams and sensual hungers, often my eyes stumble across something (or someone, for that matter) that appeals to me for reasons that have nothing to do with the physical world, but rather those who touch my creative spaces and ethereal mind (and many on my lists linked above do that too)... and then I get distracted by getting caught up in exploring and reading and forget I was writing an entry...

but mostly I am dreaming of sharing time and space with imaginary lovers and friends (just one, the right one, please, and I shall be satisfied) and keeping myself well numbed and distracted so i don't feel the hungers and potentially depressive pits of despair and self-doubt and loathing of the sameness of nothingness that permeates every moment of my personal (selfish) sensory perception (oh, but if you only understood it all)... I wonder if there's anything worth salvaging from the world inside of me, if I ever get the chance to share as I know sharing to be again, or if life from now on will be nothing but a series of doing unto others (which at least brings me pleasure so I can still find geniune smiles and wonderful reasons for living) and ignoring my personal emotional and spiritual starvation...

wow, real time doesn't seem nearly as much fun as catch-up time, huh?...

. o O ( NOTES ARE THE NEW HAPPY PILL ) O o .
(just let me know you were here)