an old actual journal entry on solitude and madness
in solitude the mind turns in upon itself and a form
of madness ensues. it traverses the burning tissues
and twists back upon itself, though never completing
any sort of loop. the request to disengage and seek
sleep is laughed upon, and rightly so - the burning
writhing skittering movements of awareness will have
their way, and nothing you might do or say will end
it. it must run its course. and transfixed, you
watch in fascination, or in horror, as the serpentine
knots are formed, reformed, malformed...
and perhaps the worst part of it is when you recognize
that there is no purpose, no goal to be attained, no
logical conclusion to be discovered. it will burn and
writhe until, hopefully, at last exhaustion overtakes
you and dream begins to take up the narrative, creating
a poetic nonlinearity that is much more pleasant, and
essentially open-ended. and therein, and only therein,
lies your escape. not in the oblivion of sleep, but
in the freedom of dream.
of madness ensues. it traverses the burning tissues
and twists back upon itself, though never completing
any sort of loop. the request to disengage and seek
sleep is laughed upon, and rightly so - the burning
writhing skittering movements of awareness will have
their way, and nothing you might do or say will end
it. it must run its course. and transfixed, you
watch in fascination, or in horror, as the serpentine
knots are formed, reformed, malformed...
and perhaps the worst part of it is when you recognize
that there is no purpose, no goal to be attained, no
logical conclusion to be discovered. it will burn and
writhe until, hopefully, at last exhaustion overtakes
you and dream begins to take up the narrative, creating
a poetic nonlinearity that is much more pleasant, and
essentially open-ended. and therein, and only therein,
lies your escape. not in the oblivion of sleep, but
in the freedom of dream.