I wish I were writing my novels.
I sat at home, depressed, wishing.
I was wishing I was doing something useful.
Instead I watched a movie I have seen numerous times, and did nothing.
I am feeling far from my spiritual nature. I feel more afraid of my mother’s words: ‘You are the most likely to join a cult!’ That I would be the most likely to give over my power to insanity. She had been under psychiatric care, I don’t really know how long, or when. My brother was under psychiatric care. My sister was admitted to a psychiatric ward for a year in her teens for drinking and drugs.
I supposedly am the sane one.
The most likely to join a cult.
I am defensive about my sanity. I am fearful that I will be just like them, neurotic fit to breakdown, or worse, gullible and vulnerable to cults and manipulation.
Just done that.
I keep trying to let go. Of that need for sanity. Why not? What does sanity really matter? At least, someone else’s variant of it. Sanity is all in the brain, how it interacts with the outside world. Look sane, act sane, and that is all that anyone notices. Even if it is a lie. He has proven how much reality is bullshit. Maleable and moveable and deceptive.
I could float along on the currents, riding the rivers as each wave of thought and concept no matter how implausible washes me back, and forth, and back. In a universe of infinite possibilities, everything anyone can imagine or think or devise or organize, it is all true.
It is all true.
All lies are true.
All truth is lies.
Everything is possible.
Nothing is real.
I can’t really recall my dream again. Something with learning. I don’t think I was teaching this time. In my mind’s eye I see a tablet, like an Ipad, but maybe made of stone. There was a danger as well. Not like the dangers when I have been in space, but similar. It had the feel of that kind of dream, or the dreams when I am wandering the future wilderness with either science or magic as my ally, my strength. Snippets, just snippest. A girl and a man and me. Fire. Trying to get something by guile when direct action wasn’t working. A team effort. Open sky, trees, a ruined town landscape. Laying down.
I really like to recall my dreams. I wake up before my alarm so I can arise slowly and recall as much as possible. But his shit keeps leaking in and I become riveted and crying when all I want to do is be me, and recall my dreams and what they mean to my life.