Waking Dreams & Nightmares, all a fog!

It’s been a good day. And it’s just Wednesday, Tuesday just ended and Wednesday hasn’t started yet (it’s Tuesday.5 (Tuesday point five)) tring tring tring tring, tring tring tring tring, da da da, da da da, da da da– da– that was the walls’ song, but my point is, it's been a good day. And it's shaping up to be a good week.

I know everything I can/will do this week. First, I think I am going to take tubes & gather up pieces of my soul, and then I can make various objects swallow them and that will let me more deeply understand the signals they emit. See, that's what happened with the walls. That's why da da da, da da da, that’s why that’s that. The soul pieces, given from me to them.

Good Monday, good Tuesday, now it might be a good Wednesday. But what if the me from Friday comes running back to the me right now? Here he is, taking his place among the signals of the walls. He says / I say: The tubes which connect each person to every other person? They give nutrition, to the mind & body. They sustain us & make us one big organism. And these tubes have fallen off of you. Put them back in. You’re weak & small & weak & small. Stumbling through the world, confused.

And he/I is/am correct. But one more thing — and he/I and I (now) are both saying this — it’s the fact that the ceiling fan is singing too. Very melodically. The higher range frequencies are beautiful. The lower range too, but the higher ones, they really carry the tune. Stars of the show. Stars up above, I can hear them but they’re faint. The walls wish to keep their signals all to themselves. So it is the case that things must be this way. Let them be that way. Good week, good week, I’ve got some music playing (& it’s similar enough to the stars, so it’s okay), and now I can relax. Do what I need/want to do, and relax in between.

And then the week will end. There’s me from the start of Monday, joining in. He woke up too late. He says there is no relaxation. Just the machinery, following procedure, following signals to do one thing & then the other & then the other & for ME/HIM, what will happen is that only the wall’s and ceiling fan’s signals will be heard and there is no body, no body at all. Its signals will get ignored because they’re overridden by the more important ones and it doesn’t exist until it collapses, and on Monday (says he) it will collapse. From the neglect. Can you call it neglect if I’m paying attention to what’s more important in the world? Signals of patches of numbness upon the tongue & legs & face & arms, & pain & the edibility of the muscles (since they’re of no use now [‘now’ = Monday, next Monday]) so perhaps this is a warning to ‘take care’. But I’m too busy listening to all these signals.

Signals. You know– do you know one particular thing about ceiling fans? They give visual signals too. Sure, sure, maybe the wall gives some faint visual signals (if it does, it’s much fainter than the audio), sure, but the fan’s visions are vivid: You can trace the path of each particle of air it moves & see dear dear death, so close yet so far. No way to predict, even if the ceiling fan tries to sing a fortune. It sings but it mostly makes up fantasies of what may unfold. Maybe it can tell its own future, since it knows it sees no one dangling down. Pure certainty, says it with pure confidence. But that's just about this one fan, right? Maybe I’ll find myself on a tree, or maybe on a fan which isn’t this one. How would I end up there? The ceiling fan gives vivid vivid vivid images. Answers? No. This ceiling fan — and specifically this one — is imaginative, it’s fleshy, it’s muscle & patches of numbness (leg & hand & tongue) & it’s– oh, I meant the visions, the visions are like that, but but but maybe the fan & the visions are both one & the same? They melt into one another. The same for the wall & the melodies as well, perhaps. And, and, and I can see the flashes of its blades as they move, I can see each second of movement & it’s glorious, it’s beautiful, just look at all the images that can be formed from a simple repetitive movement of just rotation, just look look at the ceiling fan just look look look at the ceiling fan flashing its blades, just look…

The flash of random images, you'll see it as a story. A story meaning nothing, All all others, spare no thought to me. I'd be strange if you took just another second more to observe, but I've never given anyone reason to do so. It doesn’t matter where you are, there’s always movement in the corner of your eye. I’m just in the corner of your eye & that’s where I seem strange but you look head-on & there’s nothing of note, so the flashes (from the fan, from the rest of the world, from the tubes carrying EVERYONE ELSE’S visions & smells & thoughts & hopes & dreams & sounds) will not include me because what note, nothing of note, the flashes YOUR mind chooses to carry are of images of note.

I’m dizzy.

Let me stop a bit. Stand a bit.

Take it all in.

…

A sound a sound a tring tring tring tring, tring tring tring tring, da da da, da da da, da da da– da– oh, OH! I JUST REALISED! It's THAT song, the one I made myself, and I played it in this room. And maybe the walls heard it? Heard it & learned? Heard it & learn, now they’re singing it back. It's the walls’ song now. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Maybe they're not really singing it, even though I can tell they've lubricated their throats (you can see they're alive & breathing now), maybe they're just acting like they're singing but INSTEAD of truly singing, they're just feeding me back the waves of the song I wrote. No real difference between either, though. If the fan melts into its visions & the wall melts into its music & the music is mine, then I melt into the walls. If the fan’s visions are given to me, I melt into the fan. If the rest of the people’s visions (& smells & thoughts & hopes & dreams & sounds) are given to me through the tubes, then I melt into–

But the tubes have been ripped off. I’m disconnected. I’m disconnected from ALL of you. Who did this? I don’t understand. Was it me? Was it someone else (who? when?) or did I rip out the tubes? Did they get ripped out when– WHEN did they get ripped out? Monday-me says it was since forever & so does Friday-me, they now say it’s flooding the room. The tube system. Flooding. Flooding & taking up all the space & yet never melting into me, melting on top of me instead & covering it all up & it’s not right, it’s not right. Or is it fully right? Because Monday-me is showing me how he grabs a tube & shoves it back into his heart & then it flows inside & it floods it too, the tubes always flood, is it–

It’s not working properly. I need to fix the connectivity with the tubes.

The walls are very loud.

The ceiling fan is very bright.

I’m disconnected.

Who did this? What did this?

I don’t understand.

It will be a great week.