life, in glimpse and pieces

Kate, late morning.

        No, not just pestilence; the nature of all lives is repeat.

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        That night we rode together on road 11, letting the rice fields that straddled the road passed us by; hovering overhead was indistinguishable fields and ocean and sky.  A million darkness, I suddenly felt sad.
        Involuntary sadness.  It may had been something in the wind, or the invisible cottages between the waves of the rice fields.

        I was so alone.
        Alone is not strong. 
        It’s not clean, nor independent.
        No, alone is sad.  Pure and cool tears, that sort of sad.

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        “To make a simple allegory,” he said, “in darkness, those who have faith can follow the torch that leads the way.”
        Faith is not incompatible with Science, he said.
        “We can debate over everything else in religion, but faith,” he pointed to his heart, “it has to be there.”

        We lock the door and close our hearts because we’re afraid, angry, or disappointed.

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        “Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems......”        

        The power of Song of Myself is instinctive and visceral.  I couldn’t possibly describe what happened when that day finally came and I understood why it was great; philosophical realizations as well as strong but purifying emotions washed over me.  I can’t elaborate more, but to say that from that instant on the experience became a part of my core and intellect, no longer distinguishable with myself.        I also no longer doubted if the naming of the poem was egotistical.  Because it is a poem that expresses how Whitman saw the world.  It’s also a poem about human minds. 

        And surely, each self consist the whole world.

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        “If dreaming is a constant actively of human mind...all arts are elaborations of this activity...It’s a state we overlook or repress when awake and sober, when our sensories are processing numerous information, brain overflowed with input data......” - Burroughs

        Therefore to write is to return to a primal state.  Either by shutting off all distractions and let dreams roar on paper, or by egoless recording all raw input data with minimal interpretation or added-ons: is it what writing/being a writer boils down to?

        Geniuses shouldn’t explain themselves, the result usually disappoints.
        What Burroughs said in his lecture inspired me, but I’d rather forget every word he said when I’m reading Naked Lunch.

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        By stepping 2 centimeters your left, you shall enter the wormhole.  Traveling through time and space...and enter your dreams.  Or is it?  Entering one’s dream while wide awake, crossing over physically...it’s confusing, yet invigorating.
        Psychologists and neurologists try to explain and understand dreams, but what they can do is merely observe and compose theories. There are always phenomena, reasons, and events out of our reach.

        If the realm of imagination physically exist, who’s to say that of dreams doesn’t?  And whatever does ‘physically’ means?  To what extent is it still a useful or meaningful concept? 

        Let’s explore the infinite nuances of the universe further through stories. A subjective tale that is concrete and based on reality, that is simpler and easier to discuss. Or I could keep wondering off to the next thought/hypothesis/idea forever on.

        A girl.

        Quantum Physics.

        Dream/wormhole.