I don’t understand this general malaise. This shaky exhaustion that wakes up with me like it is a warm hearted person draining me of my energies. My eyes feel the sleep heavy in them. Habits are changing and forming though this heaviness, paired with the staggering heart, feel like huge low hanging clouds over my consciousness, the energy wasted away like people in the war or disease time, the plague ravages my awareness and I’m left rubbing my eyes and re-reading sentences until they connect on some base, nocturnal level. Kerouac used to do headstands, even if awake after a bender and a volatile hangover, to wake up his mind for the zen day and begin writing his sensations immediately. There were times when he would vomit during his headstand but he was persistent and placeboed himself into believing it truly worked and like magic, the man became increasingly more aware. Perhaps I can argue that writing in this manner wakes my mind up and that I can make the fog disappear with a luminous eraser like the hand of god scratching out mistakes in the blue blue white blue skies. Pardon me for the idealism. Here’s to hoping.
Deep into a paralysis of thought, the philosopher attempts to locate the root of the lethargy. Surely it must do with a chemical deficiency, a lack of exercise routine, or any routine… an overemphasis on booze and a reckless sleeplessness. He is shackled to his cave and feels himself sunken like an old schooner on which divers never find any treasure. Dive to me you will find nothing. You will find a hollow mirror to see yourself within and scream into your oxygen mask until it ruptures, the lungs collapse, the ship sinks deeper, anchor tied around your ankle, the gloves come off, the octopus awakens in a burst of ink, a bad case of landsickness comes over you, homesick like a missing person must feel for the warmth of familiarity unless made of a certain type, the type that relishes crude curiosity and a world of the unknown expanding large in every direction. I drown and I flourish. I realign.