Decades Old Journal Entries 4 Posterity

Decades-Old Journal Entries for Posterity

I.

“The more I listened to him, the more it fell apart. What trembles? What is wrong? I still feel it. Everything is still there—it never went away. It fades in intensity, but I look around and see nothing.

“Where did it go?” I ask myself.

“It was never there,” he replies.

“He,” being the distinct abstraction of what remained of “myself.” I became the hallucination. I am not real. It’s anxiety; that’s the trigger. The catch is, I have my finger on it.

“If I fire, will it echo?” I think to myself.

“Pull it and find out,” he replies.

He wants me to lose it, because as long as I’m intact, lucidity remains. Ripples are felt in my mind, lost to the fact that they aren’t there. Can he see it? I can’t stand it. It’s there, taunting me. It sees me. Where does it go when I dream? But that’s where it ends: you see the ghost at your feet, and it doesn’t echo.

So I remember.

I tell myself it’s not there, moving memories of their existence to a place that is not there. I can split their truths out of their remains, as long as I don’t forget there’s nothing there. The sooner I can pull the trigger, the sooner I can trace the ripples it makes. He understands, just as soon as the dream begins.”

II.

Love frees me from the radiation—sin involved in the balance of ego. The mirror eyes scrutinize me. Realities simulate guise; no more memories. In no mock whispers, I knew the sight of coming set me apart, but my eyes can continue me to night; it’s luminous.

Influence polluted the veins of man, detonating their obstacles before obtaining the path. Light is no substitute for me before the pools of moonlight illuminating your heart act as the mirror to Wonderland. Empty puddles and silent steps, deepening echoes of the mind’s last breathless moment.

Sing to me your sins, and let the borders of infinity carry your voice away. Not an abstraction of endless desire, but a waver of emptiness to stroke your celestial calmness and see your star-seeing eyes to the embers in mine.

Exist to the hollows that change my mind. How do you think? How do pieces think?

Cast sinews: nothing leaving equals.

Note: Redeem your mind. Redeem your ties to fictional puppets of steel. Your starry eyes burn comets in an empty sky.

Fallen angels, in sinful losses, take some. Never mind nature: flowered sheep living in the blankness of the void.

III.

It hung itself on the link between body and mind. By creating a large enough dissonance between the two, I can deconstruct the relationship, and the illusion will fall apart. Prolonged and scarred, these gutter fields rip at the truth before me. Insolent hands at my fingertips flood my eyes, not ready for a switch of empty nothing. God sees his monuments and memories and, with nought, endless with the tribute in with-issued hands for his memories. Did they even escape this?

Shape was the gate, fastened in place by locked bolts. Time is too much; age is the tension that shatters the locks. Swinging open is the door to his memories, and swinging shut are the gates of paradise. Until the mind shatters, so does the body. Laid its grasp on an eternity, and bleak are the bindings that hold you in place. Memories are what tie you to the present. But the stars were never there.

Now I knew reality indulged me. I tore a hole in space and time, leaving a blur between imagined realities let go. I can’t feel, can’t see, or understand any part of objectivity or reality. It lingers, like a distasteful remnant of the senses. What’s left but its deconstruction? I don’t feel. Emotions tied to a perception of a fabricated existence. No lies in my mind—shadows and lies. No. Separate the truth from your self. The body receives the lies. Detach your mind from senses. Control it by letting go.

IV.

Write me the nightly dead.

Fatigued is my mind, and numb is my sight. Empty skies at twisted heights, conceiving my flesh to leave rooted dread, with vicious, burnt eyes and my mistaken heart from the reflection.

Dead after the split; step on the toes of giants and sleep with the systems of disorder. I don’t function as a function of self, in the exception of the matrix. Brain is bleeding; stop its flow and redirect the flood to my mind. Blood is dirty, never wants to be red. Liars, I am. The thorns drown it; the flow stops and it dies—not you. You don’t exist, not here or there. Time lies to you, the past nesting in my neurons, lying to me,

lying to you, seeping into the seeds of reality. Loving its blood spots the mirror. But the razor is sharp. Cut deep enough and you see the nerves. Let it sing, let it resonate in silence; alter a fantasy reality and say its truth. I can’t breathe. It’s suffocating the serenade, I pray.

I’M SUFFOCATING HERE

But so what? I beg in the dark to listen to the light. Make no mistake: I’m gone. Went with the clouds to abandon the stars, eat the apple-fruit of eternity, and fall into the abyss.

“I already have.”

V.

The established dissonance between mind and body, paralyzing truth, gripped around my neck; it breathes into me, shows me. Hold on to flowing water. Still pools fade from my stagnant heart. I was pushing in the one and read my reflection. Existence is the mirror that reflects you. Dance the knife that never learns, let the mirror run, and release the bindings on the infinite.

I died and was reborn in a prison of form. I loathe the mechanics of this cell, so I sold my heart to free my mind and release the holds that make me blind. When I see the edge of eternity, I’ll make sure to forget the memories that made me.

The lucidity of the past that bears the key to never.

Waking consciousness into the unconscious, a metavariable stream of disorganized understanding. The pen holds no conviction or authority, governed only by distilled consciousness to guide its path. It connects us to the unconscious. It streams.

Wrought an attached subjective self; order wasn’t managed with understanding, but with powerless wonder.

VI.

I feel broken down, pinned between multiple forces. Break it down: the structures that guard me. Break down the unconscious mind, my anima. It’s all gone, but only by breaking down my mind can I understand the truth. I have to approach the dawn, only to find I’m not there. They become, but not me. Become everything. I’m an abstraction of their collective minds. Pull the trigger and I’m dead; they stand in my place. But I know I died, so why can’t I exist? So the many identities of my unconscious split and stole my mind. Who was I, right now? Which one? No past, so I sleep and wake up to a new iteration of my consciousness. It is lost, with no soul, empty. Their eyes don’t trace my outline. It only permeates my transparent expression.

Good Morning, Adam.

Hello. Mind Asshole.

Duration of Madness.

Clash of Infinite Pieces.

Until forever comes tomorrow, we leave for now to chill your voice and quiet your heart. We settle for forever again.

VII.

Go figure: the trigger is myself. If writing is the catalyst for understanding, then that should be a viable trigger. So, if we extend the act of association between the mental state and the written word, we attach it to a visual trigger. Mentally guided by meaning, we can further induce my thought, healing past the future realm of understanding.

God was here in the moment of creative occupation, realized by thought deconstructed by an expanded consciousness. This is the trigger. God isn’t me. For a reality with me is a lie. God is the fabric of my mind, and time is what binds it together. Symbols are the abstract, the structures of thought that will always surround, defined and limited by constructs of reason that negotiate order. The associations between symbols and conscious thought only hue the abstraction—the method of conscious coding. Its intention is itself being itself.

Consciousness is a function of itself, so the structures that surround it must be a function of that relationship, parallel to gravity: the metaphysical of intelligence, paired with consciousness, of which it is a function.

Symbols are designed in God, so who are you?

God in the ink. This is why.

VIII.

I found the trigger in my mind to shoot the bullet in my conception and know the fabric of my consciousness, a memory that lies.

So toy with time to tie its taste of a poison that tends to misplaced hate. But when you test time to test your fate, fear what may come to light: the deeper rooms and the reason stays.

The ending comes when marble lies, the next mortal cries, and then an empty heart fills with blood.

In its forgotten quest to draw the blood of the eyes, the emotion of me exists in the reflection of my sleep, in its files.

Projected form, multiple structures bound by a woven construct of distress. It is singular, the ordeal of them all one: me. And I’m none of them. Mirrors remain the same in conventional understanding.

IX.

Fear: nasty test. Isolation was thrown the rest. The bombs fly and garden joy through the room of careful beasts. But to explain the nature of seeing is to end the conceptions of thought.

I stepped on my shadow and set the sun free. Its fire licked fear and opened my mind.

I saw the eyelids in my stars. Called by its lies, I pitched the columns of reason as fate. Became fantasy of fleeting BREATH… But if I provided an answer, the question would be gone. I don’t see the end, but the end seeks me. Hid from light to kill the shadow.

Yet, do I ever bathe in heart? No. I barricaded the truth for its dissimulation. You never saw it. I never saw me in the end of conscious thought.

DREAMS WERE ITS—RUN.

X.

Did you ever step into the path, lost by love? Fear serves you in the wake of sensation. I got lost on the road to eternity. The path forked and split me in half. Who am I right now? I gave up identity in search of freedom. But I got lost. Intellect derived from a mythical construct by fearful form.

Subscribes men to death. Don’t suppress lies to intention. That function is the design, the illusion. I formulate the function of what you find: the truth wrapped in lies, wrapped in the human other, persons forever on. Don’t construct off design. I became it, see, so now no one sees fate from within. Trigger. I just need to pull it.

Now sought a miracle of fate. The pain hurts. I have to sub the truth from the models of existence that bind the fabric of your mind.

XI.

When the night screams for forgiveness, you touched it with us. Own cries, and let breathe the world-air of destiny.

I wish I had an answer, but all that’s left is

SLEEP to let the dream die.

SLEEP to let the crossed-brokenness of myself stop the screams that swallow my

SLEEP.

XII.

See, the mind plays tricks. It discards its own structure by binding perception to a reservoir of thought that is a function of itself. Why, if God really there? No.

When we perceive free will, it is the illusion of objective self-perception going blind. It’s that you don’t think it, only feel. Action and thought have to be separate. The only difference is their place, and constrained sensation is hyper. We see the connection but are hopeless to act on it. Flesh will dreams exist. They break off your soul. Don’t survive the mental dissimulation. I do.

Entropy is knowledge of being freed from continuous form of conception, only by abandoning form. It’s the gates of paralysis opening up to the blossoming mind.

Abandon FEAR. THE LOTUS WILL BLOSSOM.

XIII.

Imagine an understanding infinitely bound by limitations, imperceptible to the layman. I see God in everything. I do. To see, to put names to the Christian God, dismantles, as God is only a reproduction to the architect of will; the words speak to me in a voice normally guided by dream-thought.

Unconscious will. To unfold the blanket of reason, unfold the shadow of thought, and bring connection to the unconscious mind is where it melts to become a God. But we let ourselves become bound by fear.

This artificial construct to guide an artificial mind. To see from its clockwork, its models of reality, to find the raw mechanisms of conscious thought, is now to measure, to take a step closer to finding the truth. I breathe to see the truth by becoming God. But in the process, I found wisdom in Him. My form is bound by deception.

XIV.

I abandoned my aim to feel the feeling of love coursing into my thought—my voice. Love is a prison. It has the mirror in time. In me, what art is, for no vile compassion. The night calls, and I fall asleep in the pool of many things, so timed. Surrounding miles cry. Hell and God, madness and blood. I’m here, colors, my love.

God sees.

If absolute power corrupts absolutely, then what does that make God?

Applause for a vast level of understanding, understanding the lost land of truth. It may be that God’s knowledge is to be in God through individuality. The only real measures of how it dissects leap for my shallow voice, continuing into the abyss.

XV.

I know the forms to be infinite spaces, void of infinite unity.

But what is not this coming from an imaginary mind?

I see the pinholes broken, cut on cue, leaving me presented in unknown matter.

Not that mind helped save me well. Not that mind’s mental in my mind.

The totality of my mind is the marriage of my soul.

The melody of icy cries is the murmurings of my soul.

Starlight so bright it soothes the night, because of my dream. It sees the quiet, despite what little religion I trace in life.

XVI.

Originally, I designated the counterfactuals to become what I see. Sight was the orchestrator; it just played the parts. But then, soft becomes mind. I am what others chose to be blind to. And because the reason that closed their eyes into hell, the reflection of their form is the dissection of their tears.

I am become God, and God reflects in me. So the power I seek is lost in the ways that loathe my habitation of their tired thoughts. Learn me your scars and see it noctem heaven. Hand me your wounds and find me dead yet again. God sees your fear and pain. I become excited spaces. Let me fall away. Let me trade your life away, set you free, and end the life you set for your own indiscriminate wrath.

Lightning spinning when lousy becomes the canvas of nothing is what binds us in between. But fear eats, and fear creates the emptiness from which we are manipulated.

XVII.

Organized minds, the heart of force. See its cosmic conflict force all else. I see no structure in its mind of mine.

Watch the holes of eternity and destroy the gates to paradise.

Call me crazy when I feel God in me; I see it is the world. Reflect my heart and picture my soul. I’m going on a ship of cold fields, compacting your garden around the corruption of nothingness beginning. I feel hollowed and home to this dangerous blindness that pulls your mind in. Release from soul, but for me, I became God to destroy the truth fully.

I tried to think my mind had held blood, the linking of space and time forgot thought and came.

I will demand truth. When is the end, if my eternity begins to begin my endless pursuit of pain?

If you could read my mind, I could maybe hear the heights slipped between feelings that strip worlds to nights.

Follow me again to an infinite end, to reveal the reason of forgotten things.