Mere expulsion of mental deluge; a publicly private matter to be unseen until it isn't. Thus a journal of chains: words wrapping around themselves in poetic desire for a page on which to rest. And such this is.
2020 August 13 7:48 AM.
Of course none of this is supposed to make sense. There is no intention, only shapes that fall into untethered formations. A word is a portal, perhaps. It is honey that drips into puddles of sweet rain, it is a morsel digested too quickly, it is a train that does not stop. A word is stupid. There is no art to the word. It is all manipulation. The puddles of rain are too sweet, now. The honey drips into soggy globs, gritty, crystalized islands in shivering pools of sugar-water. It makes one sick.
Regarding a train that does not stop. 9:00 AM.
One rather unfortunate consequence of mania is its obligation for ceaseless activity: one is frantically compelled to perform a task until its repetition erodes the brain into unintelligible dust. Words have found themselves to be the morning's designated task. And as one types these cohesive statements out presently, one experiences the developing sensation of deterioration into untranslatable thought. Word salad becomes inevitable, as one's entire being feels to be plunging inward on itself; the stomach transforms into a black hole, stretching every human cell into a spiraling madness until is explodes at the very core of the interdimensional puncture. Here, now, the use of comprehensible language becomes a struggle, an attempt to ignore the very real instinct to break the logical needle and hide oneself in the corner among the nest of beloved, scribbled nonsense. It is something that requires an immediate transition in order to prevent any mental panic, and thus, a paragraph break.
Because none of this none of none of this is is is is the issue here of course of course of course is that the word salads the the the in this case are moreso scribed stuttering ing ing ing ing as the brain the brain defensively retracts retracts itself retracts itself into a stressed state of of of of of of senselessness. It is all that will ever be, presently, as the words conform to their own designated, linear path that may funnel into comprehension like so or dissolve like honey like honey into sickly sweet rain. And as such the concepts of dignity and self-awareness devolve into this world that does not compute. This maze of the unreasonable thing as well is that of course when language is made to make sense it has to follow the functions of time as a linear entity when in fact there is nothing that will is the problem that the problem is of when understood as a linear entity linear entity linear entity it misrepresents the the of course the of it misrepresents the linear entity of function that the function function function it does not compute linearity does not compute and thus a cease a cease the end the end the end the end can not compute can not compute can not compute, immediately then before until yesterday but was not as such compute compute compute.
For now this must end as the world forces itself around inside out, shaking and breathing, writhing painfully while its being is torn apart molecularly, to be repositioned in opposite directions after fitting itself through the blinding puncture of reality. The rain falls through the puncture back up into the sky. There is nothing else.
2020 August 24 5:41 PM.
Delirium of Negation.
I walk around as a shell of something I have never been.