posted
on Wednesday, 19 June 2013
I've
read somewhere that people with clinical depression or even bearing
its faint symptoms tend to dream more vividly and frequently. A load
of crap, if you ask me. I have them all, and it's already been two
months since I had a full night's sleep and even that did not exceed
six hours straight, without a single dream I could recall. As a
result, here I am, face covered in artificial light pouring out of
the flat screen and I can only see the words I write. I wouldn't be
surprised at all if this turned out to be some sort of daydream,
nowadays it's rather frequent that I randomly remember things I
actually didn't do, like blogging, talking to people, being at
places. Mostly, they reveal themselves as obvious flights of fantasy,
others are harder to differentiate from real life. I don't know if
it's the apathy, depression, or simply that is how my mind works, but
all the same, here I am, thinking while writing, wondering if these
words are only thoughts, or actual semi-existing letters on a virtual
pane. Maybe the reason why I can't dream is simply that I get it done
while awake. During these odd hallucinations.
Oh
well.
Since
aunt Aida died, I've been thinking about death a lot. Is it the
peaceful rest under the meadows, slowly rejoining the earth you're conceived of? Is it the last adventure, the last new experience, the
big Nothing when you close your eyes and your brain gives up, leaving
you frozen in the very last thought for you cannot even begin to deal
with the big nothing? Or is any of those religious-fictitious stories
actually true? Do you burn? Drink ale with the gods? Do you return
and haunt the ones you loved? Do you start from scratch, merely
switching over a flesh suit to another?
I'm
dying to know. In fact, trying it isn't such an alien thought. If you
can't sleep, can't eat, can't communicate properly, why bother,
really? I'm not doing any productive work to help society roll along
smoothly, definitely not helping out those in need, I merely sit in a
dark room, covered in books and tungsten shine hardly even existing.
What's there to lose?
It
doesn't even feel a tad sad to verbalize this to myself. It sounds so
rational, it's hard to wrap in a psychiatric condition and get rid of
it. My self-appointed therapists at the university all agree that
it's the loss that has driven me from enjoying life. That now, with
Aida gone, I have to look for a job, keep myself alive, and mourn at
the same time. Terrible fate, terrible. Of course I'm going insane.
That, I feel the need to inform you, is a bucketful of bullshit. I'm
alright, actually, I'm not touched by grief, it's just that I don't
see the reason for going on.
posted on Wednesday, 26
June 2013
Today
I did a little research on Dr Creek again. I'm still baffled to read
his essays, the man is superhuman. He surely began as an artist, the
general elaboration on mental problems in his latest essay is so
picturesque, so amazingly scientific yet full of his very own self.
He was asked to write a bit for new mental hospital that opened in
California not so long ago. The place was graded first of its kind,
because the doctors and nurses would approach the patients with a
whole different method.
He
grasped the my main problem about treatment types; he wrote that schizophrenia clinical depression, obsessive-compulsive disorder,
narcissism and the rest, they're all nothing but defence mechanisms
that the mind creates as a reaction to an experience or situation
that the present state of mind cannot cope with.
I
automatically thought of the dream I had when I was younger, that is
the only one I can clearly recall. I was walking past grey buildings,
huge blocks of concrete with grotesque little green blotches of grass
here and there. Cloudy skies above, people rushing by, some soothing
wind. I had a book in my left hand, squeezed to my chest. I remember
my thoughts of it, too, I reminded myself not to cling on to the book
with both hands, only one, so it wouldn't seem odd to the passers-by.
I had no skin, nor bones in my dream. The hand with which I held on
to the volume was squishy and red, it trembled as I walked. I could
see the deformed layer of muscles on it as there was no solid matter
they could wrap themselves around. Still, they were erect and formed
a limb capable of holding on to some paperback. Under the cover, I
could feel my heart beat a troubled tune, monotone, though alarmed.
Veins coloured the weeping sinew, ranging from red to blue, never
reaching either absolutely. My whole body had a gentle pulsating
feeling about it and I could have sworn I felt a time gap between the
beats in my neck and in my legs. I rushed forward as if chased, and
the only murmur in my head was about getting home as fast as
possible. I didn't look at the faces of the people passing by, though
I wish I would have. I wonder still if they had any bones. I entered
a building that had a faint peach colour to it, after fumbling with
the keys for a few painfully long minutes. As I walked up the stairs,
I kept my head down, and felt my brain throb as if I had cardiac muscles press and release it, too. I stopped at the door and I got
confused, for I was sure I could not let go of the book, otherwise I
would fall and not be able to stand up again; but I still needed two
hands for opening the lock. I stood there, motionless, apart from the
startled pulsating of my whole body.
I
have vague ideas why the article triggered this exact memory, but the
main concern is that the very reminder of the dream made me yearn for
an another one. I crave to solve the riddles I create. I want to see
them, blurry and pseudo-irrational, and I want to use their creator
to decode them. And again and again and again.
See
if that would be possible, I probably wouldn't be fascinated by
quitting this mudglobe so early.
