Disjunction. Breakdown. A boy and his brick.
I'm having a problem. I don't like this. As in, you know, this. All of it. I feel somewhat trapped.
I was eating the other day, I don't remember what. But it occurred to me that... I really don't like eating. It's a disgusting process. Cutting up this matter, then grinding it with my teeth and soaking it with saliva until it's this strange, half-dissolved putty mass, this lump of food I wouldn't touch, even less want to put in my mouth. Then I get to force it down an acid-and-mucus-lined tube with a series of undulating muscles. Eating is unsatisfactory. It's gross and inefficient and wrong.
And I really don't like having a body. I'm more fit than I've been in nearly a decade, thanks to several contributing factors. But it seems like such an... unnatural machine. All the fluids and excretions and flaws, it just seems unnecessary. I breathe in, and these thin-skinned sacks fill up with all kinds of gasses and organisms and waste products, ash and pollen and dead skin cells (only some of which belonged to this pathetic meat-puppet in the first place). Walking is awkward. Speech is horrifying. Blinking is uncomfortable. Sleep is out of the question.
My extremeties are feeling... foreign. Which makes typing a wholly different sort of experience, let me tell you. I can feel my fingers on the keyboard, but they don't seem like they're a part of me. This is skin moved by muscle and bone, but the person I am is not skin or muscle or bone. I get the feeling that my senses are arbitrary- I could just be a brain rolling down a hill, and this whole journal is the brain hitting the ground in such a way. It's like I live in a house made of glass of shifting colors, and it's getting to the point where I wonder what I'd have to do to break through.
If I were a less sensible fellow, I could use this as a reason for, you know, self-mortification or whatever. However, as it is, I'm just going to throw on some Massive Attack and wait for sleep to take me again.
-Clockwork
I was eating the other day, I don't remember what. But it occurred to me that... I really don't like eating. It's a disgusting process. Cutting up this matter, then grinding it with my teeth and soaking it with saliva until it's this strange, half-dissolved putty mass, this lump of food I wouldn't touch, even less want to put in my mouth. Then I get to force it down an acid-and-mucus-lined tube with a series of undulating muscles. Eating is unsatisfactory. It's gross and inefficient and wrong.
And I really don't like having a body. I'm more fit than I've been in nearly a decade, thanks to several contributing factors. But it seems like such an... unnatural machine. All the fluids and excretions and flaws, it just seems unnecessary. I breathe in, and these thin-skinned sacks fill up with all kinds of gasses and organisms and waste products, ash and pollen and dead skin cells (only some of which belonged to this pathetic meat-puppet in the first place). Walking is awkward. Speech is horrifying. Blinking is uncomfortable. Sleep is out of the question.
My extremeties are feeling... foreign. Which makes typing a wholly different sort of experience, let me tell you. I can feel my fingers on the keyboard, but they don't seem like they're a part of me. This is skin moved by muscle and bone, but the person I am is not skin or muscle or bone. I get the feeling that my senses are arbitrary- I could just be a brain rolling down a hill, and this whole journal is the brain hitting the ground in such a way. It's like I live in a house made of glass of shifting colors, and it's getting to the point where I wonder what I'd have to do to break through.
If I were a less sensible fellow, I could use this as a reason for, you know, self-mortification or whatever. However, as it is, I'm just going to throw on some Massive Attack and wait for sleep to take me again.
-Clockwork