Foreword: I was thinking about the next few pieces of art, so one option is to illustrate this writing. Each part could fit possibly four paintings, so twelve total? I feel like this would be something interesting to explore, who knows.
Delving into the Insane Dreams of a Dead Man.
I
I didn’t mean for everything to disappear as it did. Insanity has no part with the singular mind. But when it becomes a dual sense, a duality with not just me, but with you – questions that would have been raised in one sense are no longer there. The matron of my fears bade me welcome as I walked on the street, wandering and wondering about what happens around me. The matron of my fears – stared at the world and stared at me and asked me those questions that asked me nothing but the insanity that was growing in me.
I took to walking the streets at night. Night, early early morning. Where there is a silence but for the occasional car that drives by. A twilight, a glimmer, of nothingness. That silence I wanted in my head, but had to leave for outside because my head wasn’t enough for the noise of thoughts passing through my head. The silence came with open arms. The streetlights were turning off at one point, and the light still didn’t poke through – leaving the streets in darkness. It is as if you are blind, walking on the street, walking but not noticing the barest surroundings.
The room was no longer a container. It has become an almost yearly ritual, the reason I left the north-east and came to a place closer to the equator. For that would mean I can take in, absorb, the maximum amount of warmth from the sun, yet when that strength is no longer absorbed I feel parched, cold. My sleep would shift, and I would walk these streets at night.
She said that music is a cure for somethings. It kept people in motion, in an eternal graced movement that said nothing of the world, except to yourself. Music, alcohol, semblances of drugs. Food. Nothing. Nothingness. I would fall asleep and go insane and dream and wake up and dream some more. The insanity no longer was stuck to the night world, but became me as I walked around the world in a corpse.
Shower? Why shower a dead man, walking around as if a corpse. Gaunt from the food, or lack of thereof. Spent more time by myself, walking around, walking and staring at the starlight move through the grace of the clouds. Walking on the streets themselves, with no purpose – staring at the walls and people, taking note of nothing but the oblivion that I sought. The walls became smeared of colors, the faces became like that of demons sneering, snickering, talking. Sipping the alcohol in the bars, Groups of them just eating and feasting and drinking their lives away for what? Friendship? Trust? A chance to get inebriated and walk in the world and look through my eyes?
Do you know what happens to a person when their day cycle revolves around the night? The periods were you wake up and see night and sleep and wake up and sleep and dream and walk and dream some more? Dreams that are realities, only to be broken up and controlled by you. A separation that grows and divides. I dream of people speaking to me and I am replying but I would reply with the social conventions thrown out of the window in the madness that seeks nothing but replies and dreams and dreams and dreams.
In those rare moments that the light is about I would be asked for my absence and I would reply with many different things. All of them are true, but none of them are the source. Lethargy, Games, Dreams. The true source of this insanity is the ever growing pressure that I would leave and be left alone and then what would happen? I would continue, seek companionship, grow, move on, move further, dream and build and dream some more, under the gaze of the matron of night.
II
I would notice the ruptures in the silence occasionally. Sure I would grow oblivious, but in reality I would notice. How drivers would move staring at the walls. How that inelegant whore would stare at the passerby with greed – overvaluing herself. How the silence would mix with the platter of rain when the noise was insurmountable. Music. The continuation, the movement. The continuous evils that contained nothing but a ploy. Ignorant children calling something good and another thing evil. We all are evil to the stone. I care nothing for the fellow man, but how to use them to move forwards my own goals. How to set the stones in the passage that I would care for.
Insanity. Insanity, delving into the dreams of a dead man. What is it that counts a man as living or dead? Companionship. Thoughts, friends, speech. Breath, food. There are the figurative and metaphysical rules of living. The moments of feeling, or the moments in which feelings are removed both count as the act of touching perhaps. But would it count? Friends have just became a mirror image of what they just once were. The speech has become rehearsed, day after day with the ignorant forgetting and speaking once again. Touches with the world that was with the living are gone as night after night – walking on the street is just the insanity and movement insurmountable. With the demons walking on the street, with the faze of the night sky becoming something almost unreal. Madness, sadness, laughter, joy, those feelings are given when you are surrounded by people. But at those moments, walking on that street at night, emotions are gone.
What is called emotion then is gone. So yes, I would be classified as a dead man walking. Gaunt and estranged, movements with sound and thought and silence. In a box large enough that can contain the thoughts.
III
Thoughts would roam from different things. From different senses of sanity to the true reaction of obliviousness. Thoughts would move from ideas of something greater to how the day went. How in the morning I went to class, we talked about the ideas of this or that piece. How the reactions of each classmate was the same. How it is always the same with the inner jibes continuing and going on. Insanity and breadth. But none of that would actually happen. That would just be in the dream with the clouds flowing backwards outside of the window. A phone call here or there, but I would swear, I could swear that it actually happened.
I would talk in my sleep. React to questions but never remember my replies. My thoughts would remain to the movements that occurred, that insanity that brings together everything and nothing. Oh how the days will pass in everything and nothing and wondering and thinking and hoping and waking. Dead man walking, the mortification endless in the imagination of life, or what it can be. Life, life and life and movements and dreams and walking and what is the difference between me and the next man in the ever present dream?
Daydreams that build Worlds 