Psychedelia
It’s these moments at 3am. These insomatic meditations, when fantasy takes over. When words coming pouring in and out of your brain. When someone is lying beside you; when you’re writing a brilliant piece of literature; when the path to happiness is either vividly specific or terribly obscured. If you had pen and paper, if you had a piano, if you had canvas and paints, if you had anything but a DVR and laptop and access to bevy of information and entertainment, then your brain could rest for a few seconds and pour itself into something. Instead, it races, each idea echoing and distorting the next; it creates images, smells, sounds, feelings that aren’t there; it forms problems for the sole purpose of solving them. Without external sensations, it has lost all ability to focus; a digital sensory deprivation tank. Until finally, you are forced to make your own psychological shunt to drain the rising pressure of creative fluids, and you…
WRITE SOME MIDDLE SCHOOL BULLSHIT ON TUMBLR WHILE LISTENING TO A 311 SONG!
Seriously though, house sitting makes me miss my kitties.
