(no subject)
milking myself for words, is what i have been reduced to by the intrusion of Real Life into my carefully crafted universe. i once asked "how does one balance waiting with living?". now, id like to know how one balances living in- and out-side of one's head. pardon the abundance of medical metaphors, kak govorit'sya chem dushim, to i pishem. back to my whining. something in me is steadfastly impliable to my attempts at splitting life energies between the real and the ethereal. like a stubbornly irreducible remainder, i find myself wholly on one or the other side of the fine line of Self. and it fucking SUCKS!!! when i am "within", the world and it's populace, including those to whom it is customary to refer as "loved ones", become a distant echo of a shed skin. any touch of reality sends me reeling, and i drink/read/sleep-deprive myself into an oblivion of any externality. should i chance to be extricated from internal recesses (a painstaking process of collecting vse rastekshiesya po drevy mysli, to be undertaken with caution and infinite patience), i repeatedly find myself - a hapless adventurer having forgotten the code for my Sezam.