I've counted too highly on alcoholic sedation to induce better sleep this week, as the difficulty of last week works itself into the new week, but in this case, the lubrication has greased a rusting hinge to open a door. On previous posts, I remarked on how my dreams are mostly unimportant perceptual pastiche that I've assumed are just unspent mental stimulus leakage which does little but deny me deeper sleep. I've been wondering some if maybe I could use some of the strange images as source material for writing. All these things are true, but I think I've been missing the point, what overall my hyperself has been trying to teach me in my sleep, through the purity of dreamscape.
Last night, I had one of those television episode-like dreams, ones I usually discount because I'm not even within the dream, about a man (represented by an actor whose face failed to survive wakening) who finds himself in an antique barn where people's limitations, the attachments they refuse to let go of, manifest physically on other people, in a surrealistic and violent chaos, where only the man seems to realize what is truly happening when he confronts the source, who himself is only a player in this advanced thought-experience. It was a very wild dream, and I wish to the heavens itself I could recall with perfect detail. Still, that I recall the concept will make enough for an amazing story. It makes sense that it should be a story, because my fiction and symbolic-made-real in dreams share that same magic realism.
I've written so little recently because when I've looked at my former work, which are still good in their own way, and I see how unalive the writing is, with reliance usually on a single comedic gag, with a bare hint of real meaning, and because that is the axial point, everything else lacks in the spark of multi-dimensional and philosophical constructive discord that I think I'm trying to capture on paper. My writing lacks the passion of my full creativity. There, I said it. That is huge. That means so much more than just my writing, for my life, but what I've wanted in my life and what I've wanted to make of my writing are irrevocably interrelated. Passion. Creativity. (As usual, have to excuse if little of this makes sense, I have to get this down, but this is coming literally from mind to hands, in the need to record it before I lose it to the neural filtration system, just like what we see in dream is lost when it tries to cross into our waking sense of reality, with the perceptual detours of reality.)
I've been tearing my hair out, and falling into my unconstructive bitchery, about how I feel like I am lacking the naus, the centralized awareness, that links all the parts of my being into a cohesive and dynamic structure, and with zen-like reliability, it's been right in front of me the whole time. Creativity. Passion. Expression. Meaning. Purpose. Life. This is pretty powerful stuff. This is what the neural blockage is holding back, the creative drive, since this can't be easily filtered or controlled, and its passions are fraught with risk that can't be selectively chosen for exploitation without cost. Creativity that is a sum of past, present, and future. The thing that has to be awakened unconditionally and fully. All these experiments in removing blockage. The desire to learn meditative states. The want to open the perceptual floodgates. All these have been driven unconsciously by the pressure of my passions awakening too fully to be denied and filed away as some intellectual philosophical exercise. For all these years, it has been manifesting in my dreams, but I've shunted it to some side effect of my ADHD, that itself an invention of someone else seeking an easier definition for uncommon mental systems. This is the power of unifying elements, they effect everything in the mosaic of being, and I know I'm barely reading the cascade effect.
This is a good realization, even if it only makes me slightly less clueless about how I can crack the neural blockage that holds back the full focal stream of my creativity, with its powerful emotional and spiritual impact. But that's not for now, not yet at least.
Last night, I had one of those television episode-like dreams, ones I usually discount because I'm not even within the dream, about a man (represented by an actor whose face failed to survive wakening) who finds himself in an antique barn where people's limitations, the attachments they refuse to let go of, manifest physically on other people, in a surrealistic and violent chaos, where only the man seems to realize what is truly happening when he confronts the source, who himself is only a player in this advanced thought-experience. It was a very wild dream, and I wish to the heavens itself I could recall with perfect detail. Still, that I recall the concept will make enough for an amazing story. It makes sense that it should be a story, because my fiction and symbolic-made-real in dreams share that same magic realism.
I've written so little recently because when I've looked at my former work, which are still good in their own way, and I see how unalive the writing is, with reliance usually on a single comedic gag, with a bare hint of real meaning, and because that is the axial point, everything else lacks in the spark of multi-dimensional and philosophical constructive discord that I think I'm trying to capture on paper. My writing lacks the passion of my full creativity. There, I said it. That is huge. That means so much more than just my writing, for my life, but what I've wanted in my life and what I've wanted to make of my writing are irrevocably interrelated. Passion. Creativity. (As usual, have to excuse if little of this makes sense, I have to get this down, but this is coming literally from mind to hands, in the need to record it before I lose it to the neural filtration system, just like what we see in dream is lost when it tries to cross into our waking sense of reality, with the perceptual detours of reality.)
I've been tearing my hair out, and falling into my unconstructive bitchery, about how I feel like I am lacking the naus, the centralized awareness, that links all the parts of my being into a cohesive and dynamic structure, and with zen-like reliability, it's been right in front of me the whole time. Creativity. Passion. Expression. Meaning. Purpose. Life. This is pretty powerful stuff. This is what the neural blockage is holding back, the creative drive, since this can't be easily filtered or controlled, and its passions are fraught with risk that can't be selectively chosen for exploitation without cost. Creativity that is a sum of past, present, and future. The thing that has to be awakened unconditionally and fully. All these experiments in removing blockage. The desire to learn meditative states. The want to open the perceptual floodgates. All these have been driven unconsciously by the pressure of my passions awakening too fully to be denied and filed away as some intellectual philosophical exercise. For all these years, it has been manifesting in my dreams, but I've shunted it to some side effect of my ADHD, that itself an invention of someone else seeking an easier definition for uncommon mental systems. This is the power of unifying elements, they effect everything in the mosaic of being, and I know I'm barely reading the cascade effect.
This is a good realization, even if it only makes me slightly less clueless about how I can crack the neural blockage that holds back the full focal stream of my creativity, with its powerful emotional and spiritual impact. But that's not for now, not yet at least.
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