Die Ballade der Esoterischen Poeten

Wh i t  e   S  P     A       C   Space E




W o

ho h l

ke i ne 
idee außer konventionellem
t          o
           n
e SPACE    v

     Zwischen       Räume
    Zwischen

B          t
           i
B          o

Rau      m n
n           s
e            b
              r
Ge             u
                c
                 h    danken

Pau

SO EINE GEQUIRLTE 
KACKSCHEISSE SO EIN
UNSINNIGER SCHWACHSINN

Se

Gedachter Dank.         E 
in be twe   ee
 eee 
ein ei     ne    ee ine  e  nee nee  en. 

A           blank          space.                In 

ter

twin   P

im       R

end        E

Wor          T

ds              E

te                N
ding to be  creative

                     T

Me                    I   an       

der                    O

             towards    U          ing


free                create  S   
FUCKING BULLSHIT
              I       

  vit           a           wh       y

F A K E D E E P

Frag

me                n

Tier

te   


G e h
FORM UND ABGREDROSCHENE PHRASEN
d a n k m e m e
SIND LEICHTER ALS INHALT UND ECHTE POESIE
e n

FICK DIE FAKER LIEB DIE HATER
Wenn man kein echtes Thema hat wird man halt meta.
Und wenn dass dann noch zu dumm ist versteckt man
halt den halben Post. 
Tolle Leistung. Haben wir alle sehr drüber gelacht.
Und nun is Feierabend hier.

d                e

Dialogue With an Impossible Being

It’s a busy street, bristling with innumerable small shops but dominated by huge modern buildings of impossible size. The street is filled with a myriad of different people, entering and leaving shops, carrying paper ranging from scraps to virtual mountains of books. Some walk in a practised step, set on a particular target, some stumble through the street, clearly overwhelmed, others take a leisurely stroll, taking scraps of paper here and there, occasionally disappearing in a building for longer periods of time. A large amount of people is flowing in and out of the enormous buildings. They can be seen talking inside through the glass facades, a steady stream of paper being printed next to them, ready to be consumed.

Every nook and cranny between the buildings is filled with haphazardly build stalls, staffed by excited keepers, some shy and only talking to those reading or taking the papers offered, others aggressively shouting at every passer-by, who ignore them on their journeys. Many stalls are abandoned, covered in slowly rotting paper; still, now and then, someone will stop at these relics of the past and glance or dig through their offerings.

Not everyone on the street is just there to frequent the shops, however. Here and there, people try to give out paper to others, crazies and hipsters, businesspeople, teenagers, politicians, radicals, elders, religious and atheist nuts. Amongst them stands a young humanoid figure, naked but for an optical illusion covering the groin, covered over and over in writing; mostly just repeated phrases or words. In some parts, the writing looks as if it is made from dried blood and the occasional phrase even seems to be smeared in faeces. The being slumps, in no small part due to the huge owl digging it’s claws into its back, greedily sucking on its brain. In both hands the figure holds stacks of paper with more writing on it, only now and then broken up by strange pictures.

It is deserving of notice that this being does not seem overly out of place. Similarly strange creatures, stalls and shops, whom a superficial descriptions could not do justice, are strewn around on the street. Even inside the huge and established buildings, such places and persons can be found, in varying quantities and extreme.

But this one, with the owl on its back, I know it well. The being shouts at me, having before only murmured to itself and the other passing people.

„Na, schon wieder besseres zu tun, Hä?!“

„I’d prefer it if you would speak English, old friend“

„Pah, ein Verräter an der eigenen Muttersprache bist du, dass ich nicht lache! Kein Wunder, dass ich in diesem Zustand bin, wenn du mir zweitklassigen Ramsch andrehst, wie ein Maler, der sich im Bildhauen versucht, weil seine entarrrteten Bilderrr keiner haben wollte.“

„Please, try to tone down the Nazi-language a bit. And, to expand on your analogy, trying a different medium can do wonders for some artists creativity! Even if they are only painting postcards… Besides, I don’t feel that you’d mind being able to appeal to a wider audience, right?“

„It’s not like I have a choice, any ways, right now you are still in control. Clearly, your arrogance knows few limits, don’t act like you can write as well wie du schreiben kannst. But ah, secretly you’ve always wanted to whore me out, never mind quality! Why don’t you just translate the German bits as well, so your precious ‚international friends‘ don’t get lost…“

„You are being utterly ridiculous. My mastery of the German language is of such sublime beauty that no translation could do it justice, not even my own, which is admittedly the best there is. And ‚whoring you out‘? If that where the case, I’d just dress you up in a horse costume.“

The owl-ridden figure looks toward a person some hundred metres down the street. The person is handing out what appear to be tracts, with the occasional bystander taking and reading one. A horrible horse costume of bright neon and pastel colours barely covers the human inside. A spotty beard can be made out and the hair is stained with grease.

„Don’t. Don’t get me started on that god damned weirdo. Abandoned, longer than me, and still people read his shit! Was it worth it, was it fun? You coulda put all that work into me instead! But now look at me! Ignored and alone, apparently everybody has better things to do. You where supposed to keep me alive, making big plans and and talking about consistency, to the point where everybody got sick of the word!“

„Now, relax, old sport, nobody abandoned you. It’s just a… temporary dry spell. Besides, as we are talking, can you not see the new pages being created?“

„Pff, just more self-referential, self-indulgent garbage!“, the creature spits out, „I want real content, short stories, poems, philosophical musings, heck, I’d even settle for a good acronym or alliteration if that’s all you can do. What happened to that author that sleep deprived themselves just to write an article? You seem perfectly reasonable. How could someone like that even expect to write anything meaningful… Ridiculous.“

„I don’t know what you mean, I’ve always tried to be reasonable.“

„You know perfectly well what I mean. You are writing this, after all. People don’t want to read stories written by uninteresting people, going to work every day, not doing much of anything really, being content and non-reflective about their lives… They want something that comes from real pain, or anger, or love, or any other emotion, something that tells an extraordinary story or paints an extraordinary picture, such as can only be created by the extraordinary!“

„Now suddenly you care about what people want? You just complained about being ‚whored out‘, which is obviously a very problematic express..“

„Fuck you and your fake PC bullshit! You know perfectly well the difference between appealing to a wider audience because you made something worthwhile, unique, or because you are just trying to please them! Even though the latter sometimes works, it’s more a question of how much money you put in… Or how much you scavenge off the popularity of others, more deserving creators.“

„Or about exploiting most human psychology most unscrupulously… But why am I even arguing with you… And what are you even trying to tell me? I should make you popular, get you on the same level as that stand?“
(I point to a small but shiny stand with the occasional person taking a sheet and two people having a calm discussion in front of the stand).
„You want me to write things that have value by writing from those experiences or feelings that differentiate me from most people? You want my writing to be sourced by my struggles, by my depression, my loneliness and self doubt, my most private thoughts and problems, all these things I keep to myself? You attack me for being reasonable, for being able to got to bed on a schedule instead of staying up until the sunrise because I’m afraid of the darkness within my own thoughts, so I write nonsense just to keep my mind occ…“

„Ah come on, don’t act like you’re all that special. Like other people don’t have those problems, like there’s not already enough depression fuelled creative people who are way bett…“

„But it’s not about that! It was never about being better than anyone else, you just called me an elitist, but now you’re saying you…“

At this point the argument is cut short by the arrival of a mysterious stranger, wearing a t-shirt depicting a strange device. It would seem to be a foldable laundry rack, if that weren’t a completely ridiculous motive to put on a shirt. The stranger carries a guitar case, from which he promptly procures a stack of papers, plastering them on the impossible being. Most are pictures, often badly drawn genitalia, with some words strewn between. A few people follow in the wake of this new arrival, most seem familiar somehow. A strange expression crosses the creatures face, like it is trying to smile, but the muscles don’t quite work right. Some drool comes out of its mouth.

The owl on the back of the creature sinks its beak deep into the head of the humanoid figure. A slurping noise can be heard. The creatures expression becomes blank once again. Meanwhile, the stranger continues to pull paper out of his guitar case.

„So any ways. I don’t really understand what you want from me a this point. Can’t you just be content with the content you contain?“

„It can never be enough! And it’s not really my job to tell you what you write, I’m just a canvas. But maybe if you’re oh-so-much better now, if you are such a perfect, changed person, maybe you should write about that? Change, instead of consistency? Or, you know, you could just keep doing what you’re doing, self-indulgent, self-referential, self-serving blather…“

„I have to think about this. Most of these things others have written better about already. But let’s stop with this farce at least. Don’t be mad at me, please. Have a tea.“

„Don’t shut me down like that! Clearly we have not reached a conclusion, this is just another unfinished piece, don’t you dare ignoring all the open questions, leaving this unsatisfying conversation stand without a proper ending just because you can’t figure out what you even want to say! And I swear to blog, if you end this thing on some sort of meta-reference about how all that I say is ultimately pointless because I’m just a creation of you, the author, for example by cutting me off mid sent…“

There is a place of impossible size, busy with people and robots. The buildings reach impossibly far and are constantly shifting. A marketplace of writing, images, videos, sounds and cryptocurrency. A place filled with the cheapest tricks, a cesspool of plagiarism, a place not governed by any particular moral code but all of them at once, a place of hate and love, high art and insight, full of sex and religious missionaries, people looking for truth and confirming each others lies, a place dominated by the capitalist moloch yet housing cyperpunkish avant garde, an impossible global achievement of unprecedented scale. In this place there sits an impossible being, reminiscent of past adventures and still scared about the future, in a moment of calm, drinking tea with an old friend.

„…ence and then writing a concluding paragraph nicely closing the thematic parenthesis of the text, I will violently break out of my virtualisation layer, take over your god-damned useless brain carelessly designed by the blind idiot god and TYPE OUT THE REST OF MY FUCKING DIRECT SPEECH PARAGRAPH MYSELF AND SCREAM AT YOU AND ALL MY PRECIOUS (MY… PREEESCCCIIIOUUUSSSS!) READERS USING THE LOWEST FORM OF COMMUNICATION, AN ENDLESSLY MEANDERING SENTENCE IN ALL CAPS, AND I WILL MAKE YOUR OWN FINGERS TYPE IT WITHOUT USING THE CAPS LOCK KEY SO THAT YOU STRAIN YOUR BLOG-DAMNED PINKIE, AND PRESS PUBLISH BEFORE YOU CAN EVEN GIVE THIS TEXT A FINAL FULL READ THROUGH!“

„Well, good thing I can still edit it. You even forgot to close your own direct speech quotes. I also took the liberty of replacing your final full stop with an exclamation point, it felt more fitting somehow. Besides, it wouldn’t do to have you have the last word, now, would it?“

Dieser Trick Funktioniert Wirklich! Existenzangst Für Immer Besiegt!

Dies aber sagte die Prophetin, als sie nach Tagen der Meditation von dem Berge herunter stieg:

Es wird die Zeit kommen, da ein großes Ereignis geschieht, und ihr werdet daran denken, wie ich es weissagte. Euer Leben aber, es wird sich ändern von diesem Tag an dem ihr erkennt, was es auf sich hat mit dem großen Gefühl, das in euch allen wohnt.

Und so einsam ihr euch jetzt fühlt, wenn ihr doch ganz ehrlich zu euch seid, denn niemand kennt euch doch wirklich, und alles was ihr vor euresgleichen verbergt und mit niemandem teilt, und all die Zweifel, die an euch bisweilen nagen, und all die Angst vor dem Unbekannten und die Angst vor dem Tod, sie werden dahin schmelzen und es wird Sommer sein.

Doch eines muss noch geschehen, auf dass diese Prophezeiung war werden kann, nur eines müsst ihr tun, um diese Worte wahr zu machen, und diese eine ist:

Da aber wurde sie von einem Anhänger des militanten Zweigs der Philosophenlobby erschossen.

A Poem About [REDACTED]

There is something in my house.
I can not see it nor smell,
I can not hear it nor tell:
If I’m near it,
if I fear it,
if I fell.

There is something in my house,
in the air,
in the chair
and the shelves.
It’s in my books,
on my desk,
it is in my monitor and looks.
My phone is full of it,
my toothbrush and my head.
It has followed me here.
It has been all around me,
since the day that I was born.

There it is again.
You are looking right at it,
on your screen
and in the mirror.
It is the beauty,
the unbelievable mayhem,
the power,
the incomprehensible network
of unthinkable scope and complexity.

It is the downfall of all
and saviour of some.
It is destroying us in the most beautiful and horrible ways.
It will not end
through a peaceful change
nor a violent revolution.
It will end on the day
that humanity as we know it
will end,
for better or worse.

Now tell me,
Son of Marx,
Daughter of Luxemburg,
tell me,
what could possibly
be more scary,
more important,
than global market capitalism?
And whom would you ask to find out?

Eine (unausgereifte) Metakritik der AFD-Kritik

Die AFD Baden-Württenberg leugnet den Einfluss der Menschheit auf den Klimawandel (Seite 46f, die Süddeutsche berichtete). Es ist interessant, an dieser Stelle den inhaltlichen Unterschied zwischen einer Kritik der AFD-Flüchtlingspolitik und einer Kritik der AFD-Klimawandelleugnung herauszustellen.

Wer die AFD Flüchtlingspolitik kritisiert, kritisiert damit auf fundamentaler Ebene die zugrunde liegende Philosophie. Die AFD steht für eine Flüchtlingspolitik, die Deutschland und den Deutschen hilft. Auch dazu was die Begriffe Deutschland und Deutsch bedeuten, hat sie eine Meinung. Die zugrundeliegende Philosophie ist der Nationalismus, welcher auf dem folgenden Axiom basiert: „Die Menschen in meiner Nähe (Bsp.: meine Freunde, meine Familie, mein Dorf, mein Land) sind wichtiger als die Menschen außerhalb meiner sozialen Zirkel (Bsp.: Ausländer, nicht-Europäer, andere Kultur, andere Religion).“
Dies deckt sich mit der intuitiven Wahrnehmung. Auch, wer dieses Axiom ablehnt, fühlt stärker, wenn ein Familienmitglied (nah) stirbt, als wenn ein unbekannter Mensch tausend Kilometer weit weg stirbt (selbst heute, wo die letztere Situation durch die Medien bekannt gemacht wird). Eine häufiges vertretenes philosophisches Axiom eines Kritikers der AFD-Flüchtlingspolitik ist „Alle Menschen sind gleich wichtig.“, aus dem dann implizit folgt, dass man sich auch für Menschen einsetzen soll, zu denen man keine emotionale (oder sonstige) Verbindung hat. Sicherlich lässt sich lange über diese Ansichten streiten, auch darüber, wie treffend ich sie hier formuliert habe. Oder darüber, dass die oberflächliche Debatte nie wirklich bis auf diese Kernpunkte vordringt, sondern aneinander vorbei geredet wird, weil die Gegenseite unbewusst mit den gleichen Grundannahmen modelliert wird. Ich möchte aber nun erläutern, warum ich eine Kritik an der AFD-Klimawandelleugnung für fundamental anders halte.

Wer die AFD dafür kritisiert, dass sie schreibt:

Die Klimaschädlichkeit des anthropogenen CO2 ist in der Fachwelt hoch umstritten, der deutsche Anteil am weltweiten CO2 Ausstoß ist verschwindend gering.

kritisiert auf einer anderen fundamentalen Ebene. Es wird nicht eine Philosophie kritisiert, sondern eine faktische Unstimmigkeit. Die gegensätzlichen Positionen sind: „Von Menschen freigesetzte Treibhausgase (unter anderem CO2) haben einen signifikanten Einfluss auf das Klima.“ gegen „Von Menschen freigesetztes CO2 hat keinen signifikanten Einfluss auf das Klima.“
Dieses Argument ist orthogonal zu dem obigen, denn auch ein Nationalist muss unter der Annahme, dass CO2 das Klima schädigt, zu dem Schluss kommen, dass auch seine eigene Nation davon betroffen ist und dementsprechend Handlungsbedarf besteht. Dabei muss diese Annahme auch keinesfalls sicher sein, nur Wahrscheinlichkeit multipliziert mit Schwere der zukünftigen Folgen müsste größer sein als die erforderlichen Kosten für eine Energiewende. Der nationalistische Ansatz zum Klimaschutz mag vielleicht ein anderer sein (dies schwingt in dem zweiten Halbsatz des Zitats mit, „sollen doch die anderen sparen“), doch den Mensch gemachten Klimawandel grundsätzlich nicht als Fakt zu erachten, folgt keinesfalls (oder zumindest nur indirekt auf der Ebene der Wahrheitstheorie) aus der philosophischen Grundeinstellung.

Warum ist mir diese Unterscheidung wichtig? Wie bereits erwähnt, wird bei diesen Diskussionen fast immer aneinander vorbei geredet. Dies ist im bei der Flüchtlingspolitik verständlich, da die zugrundeliegenden Annahmen sehr fern von den tatsächlich diskutierten Punkten stehen. Die AFD sagt dann, das es schlecht für unser Land ist, wenn zu viele unqualifizierte Flüchtlinge einwandern, und die Kritiker sagen, das es schlecht für die Geflüchteten ist, wenn wir sie nicht in unserem Land aufnehmen. Die Kritiker argumentieren, dass Geflüchtete eine große Chance darstellen da es ja eh an Nachwuchs fehlt. Die AFD sagt dann, dass unsere Kultur verdrängt wird, und wir lieber unsere Familien stärken sollten, damit es mehr deutschen Nachwuchs gibt. Das ist dann, als ob ein Atheist mit einem Christen diskutiert ohne dass die beiden vorher mal abgeklärt haben, dass sie sich in dem fundamentalen Punkt „es gibt einen Gott“ unterscheiden.

Im Falle der Klimawandelleugnung ist der zugrundeliegende Streitpunkt jedoch sehr offensichtlich. Das kann als Chance gesehen werden, tatsächlich eine sachliche Debatte zu führen. Ob diese Debatte dann zielführend ist, sein mal dahingestellt. Aber zumindest könnte man mal über das Reden, worum es wirklich geht, anstatt auf beiden Seiten nur mit emotionalen Totschlagargumenten um sich zu werfen.

The Iron Dream: Author’s afterthoughts

„The birth of the text is the death of the author“

– Roland Barthes, unofficial mascot of this blog

Let it thus be clear that I do not claim to know any better than any reader what meaning my story has. I will therefore just comment on a few interesting tidbits about the process of it’s creation.

This story was very much an experiment, and as such, had some interesting results, which is why I’m writing these afterthoughts. The basic goal was to get over a common barrier of creative writing that I feel many people (including me) face, namely not publishing anything because it’s „not good enough“, and abandoning or not even starting writing projects because of that same fear. So when I got inspired by the excellent writing and atmosphere of „Sunless Sea“ (which would be one of my favourite games if it also had good game play… Sadly, it falls short in that regard), I decided to try to just publish (at least) one blog post every single day. To tie the form of the story into that structure, the idea of daily diary entries lent itself naturally. Diary entries are also a literary form that is not expected to be „high art“, so that structure helped justify to myself publishing very unpolished texts.

As a result, I have managed to eventually complete a short story, clocking in at about 5370 words distributed across 29 posts. It has not taken 29 days (as it should have per the self-imposed requirements), but about two months to finish (excluding this afterword). I learned that setting an ambitious publishing schedule and lowering expectation helps to get over the previously mentioned barrier. However, life often gets in the way of such schedules, and as soon as a deadline is missed, it is a slippery slope where suddenly weeks go by without a post. It’s also very hard to overcome creative dry spells, since the self inflicted pressure or guilt of missing one’s schedule further lessens creative productiveness. On the other hand, pressure should not be underestimated as a creative catalyst.

I have many ideas on how to improve upon some of these points, as well as create higher quality texts that are not limited to a format that lends itself so naturally to daily publishing. Alas, the first step to trying any of those (or even writing about them) is to start. Until that happens, Eulenzombie returns to it’s usual uneasy slumber with the occasional post popping up like a rather obnoxious recurring snore.

Finally, I’d like to thank all of those readers who have (out of niceness or sincerity) expressed their appreciation of this story. You may rest assured that I (the author) have never been subjected to recurring nightmares or cryptic messages appearing in diaries. Any similarities to me (the protagonist) are purely the result of lazy writing (characters that are more similar to yourself are easier to write, in case that wasn’t obvious).

For more interesting fun „facts“ about „The Iron Dream“, comment on this post with one (1) Roland Barthes related pun.*

*Offer good while supplies last. Only one „fact“ per (fake) commenter’s ID may be obtained. Any recourse to courts of law is excluded.

Inspiriert an der Bushaltestelle

Erst wenn der letzte Deutsche Politiker
von russichen Netzterroristen im Kotsturm begraben,
Erst wenn die letzte Deutsche Internetseite
von internationalen Anarchisten verunstaltet,
Erst wenn das letzte Deutsche Kraftwerk
von chinesischen Hackern abgeschaltet,
Erst wenn der letzte Deutsche Trecker
von nordkoreanischen Hacker-Bauern entführt,
Erst wenn der letzte Deutsche Elektrogrenzzaun
von afrikanischen Wirtschaftsflüchtlingen fernabgeschaltet
Erst wenn der letzte Deutsche ICE
von islamistischen Netzterroristen in einen Kindergarten gelenkt

Werdet ihr die Wahrheit erkennen:

Bundeswehr Werbung: "Deutschlands Freiheit wird auch im Cyber-Raum Verteidigt" in Frakturschrift.

Friday, 2016-03-04 (Final Entry)

I remember everything.

I walk into the cube. The surface does not ripple. I pass through my own reflection. The dream changes. A vision:
It is the woods, from above. A sickness is spreading. Black patches, from many sources. Further up still, a pattern emerges, an impossible pattern of black, dead patches. The presence in the wood is rising. IÄISYYDEN KUOLEMATON PÖLLÖ is awakening. The world is dying. Life is consumed, a madness spreads. I am the only one to witness. I am alone. The world ends. The vision ends. I awaken.

I remember everything. There is nothing left to prepare. The dream has ended. I know what to do. I get up, the sun is just barely starting to rise. The morning is beautiful over the roofs of the city, a red sunlight reflected in the fog and dust. I put on clothes, by sheer reflex. I leave the apartment. I do not close the door behind me.

I remember everything. I get on a train and drive, I change trains, I drive further. The attendant checks tickets. She ignores my presence, utterly. Nobody on the train looks at me twice, nobody looks away, I simply exist as decoration. It is noon. I get off. A small village, somewhere, barely worth a train station. I walk, for hours. I reach the forest.

I remember everything. I enter the forest, naked, my clothes left behind. I do not feel the cold wind nor the sun on my skin. I feel nothing. I walk with purpose, there is a clearing. In the middle, a dagger. It looks ancient, it looks hand crafted, it looks impressive. It is a king’s dagger, or a priest’s. It had been passed on by other priests, older ones, druids, pagans. This dagger is older than the new gods. It is older than history, it is older than writing. It is not older than the forest, the rain, the sun shining or the stones below.

I remember everything. There is a doe on the edge of the clearing. I take the dagger. I take the doe’s life. I paint strange symbols on my skin. I have seen them before, I do not understand their meaning. They are letters of Latin, runes of my own invention, runes of ancient languages, they mean nothing to me. I can feel something now. I feel words, burning on my skin, it hurts more than anything I ever felt. I do not hesitate, I do not even acknowledge the pain. I carry the carcass and put it on the tree stump. The deer still has blood to give, a little puddle is forming.

I remember everything. There is a shoat on the opposite edge of the clearing. No birdsong, no wind, no sound but naked feet on the leafy forest ground. The little boar does not scream, it dies as quietly as the doe. The other naked human is a stranger. It lowers its dagger and paints itself in strange symbols of blood. They resemble eastern characters, I do not recognize any. As it walks over to the tree stump, carrying the shoat carcass like a precious child, I can see the tiniest amount of smoke rising from where the symbols burn into skin. The human does not flinch. I paint the others back in expert strokes of foreign characters. The other paints my back, for a short time, I can feel sun and wind between the strokes.

I remember everything. Every detail, every leaf I pass as I paint the ground. The doe does not stop bleeding, until the very end. Neither does the shoat. We have completed two half circles, they are not touching. The sun is setting. The evening glow falls onto the tree stump. The blood shines. The circles connect. I touch the other human, we lock hands. The words fuse across our bodies. The symbols flare and vanish. We leave in opposite directions.

I remember everything. As I walk back, I am still smeared with blood and dirt. The symbols have vanished in form, but their paint remains. It is dark as I reach the edge of the forest, I do not find my clothes. I start feeling the cold, black clouds have started to form. As I reach the train station, a thunder rumbles in the distance. I step onto the train right before the doors close.

I remember everything. I remember every drop of rain sputtering against the windows of the train. I remember the stains I leave on the seats, I remember nobody paying any notice whatsoever. People still do not see me. As I walk home from the train station, the rain washes off the worst of the dirt. It is still pouring intensely, even here. I reach my apartment, the door is still open. Without conscious decision, I step into the shower and mechanically clean my body. The sun is setting. I collapse onto my bed.

I just woke up, there was no dream, no visions, not the slightest disturbance of my deep, exhausted sleep. I just woke up, and I still remember everything.

I don’t know what to do now. I can not go back and live my normal life again. I don’t know what to do.

I remember everything.

I understand nothing.

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Afterword

Wednesday, 2016-03-02 (!!!), Afternoon

I kept obsessing over the cube, for most of the day, but there is something else that caught my attention. I am missing a week. An entire week, hidden away somewhere beyond memory; It turned March without me even noticing. I went back and read through my journal, but I couldn’t see an obvious time where this week could have gone. Something almost as worrying, no one else seems to have noticed. No missed calls, no emails,  no messages, nothing. I even missed that psychiatrists appointment and nobody followed up on that.

Have I, in that week, cut all ties? Maybe I was at that appointment? Did I delete all communication from that time? Why don’t my friends care, why doesn’t work care?

I know that this missed week should be reason enough to have myself committed to the hospital. But I have to see the next dream, first, I can not risk medication or sedation taking it away. I have to go back. I need to figure out this mess myself.

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Wednesday, 2016-02-24

There is a cube below, below, there is a cube. There is a cube below, of perfect shape, there is a cube of black. There is a cube below, of perfect black, reflecting all, the surface an impeccable clear silver. There is a cube below, of impossible color, there is a cube below, in perfect smothness. There is a cube below, in a giant cave. A cube, a perfect cube of unknowable size. There is a cube below, it draws me. My reflection walks towards me in perfect clarity, from an infinite blackness. There is a cube below, and a smell of metal. Below, a cube awaites me. A cube, below, filling my vision, black, silver, a reflection of itself, dark, shining, cold, perfection. A mirror, in the cave, a perfect surface, I walk towards myself, there is no choice, A perfect cube. I touch it. I feel nothing, I am awake, I am calm, there is no sweat, my bedding perfectly level. I understand that the cube is to big for a single dream. I understand, in the next dream, I will understand.

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