I'm so tired all the time. When I talk to people I sound like I'm on a downer. I'm not really all that down though, at least not in a way that makes acute emotional pain bounce through my brain. I’m not quite happy, mentally nauseas, and still feedback looping, but short of depressed. Maybe just lethargic. I can't figure out what cycle it fits into.
Hmmmmm... there are sleeping cycles. I can never maintain those. Surely that is fucking with my head. Not getting my melatonin at night, not getting my vitamin A in the day. And I feel like all possibilities are exhausted, but perhaps I've just crammed myself into a niche. Maybe I just don't realize that I hate my routines, my random, non-cyclic shuffle through these life scripts. I went off the major mind perturbating chemicals, but surely those pedestrian inebriants fuck with my rhythms as well.
Another barometric reading, the psychic weather report – how dull, but not quite as dull for me, because I am, unfortunately, at ground zero, trying to gather data, see the patterns. So much damned self analysis - analysis is an uber-feedbackloop. I should get back into literature, wrap my head around other people's analyses - of something resembling objective reality, an aggregate of subjective reveries - committed to pages, words deemed worthy, or screamed into the abyss, for something to do.
Dreams have always been my friends. They take me beyond myself. They are previews of ego death. They don't sour on me, even with analysis. Even with lucidity (though I can never sustain lucidity in dreamtime long before waking up) I can still escape the sickness. I'm happy, healthy, and sane in dreamtime. That's a thread, I loved dreams years ago, I still love them. They subvert all the philosophical bullshit.
Meaning is a mental illness, it seems to me.