'the coal black sea, waits for me, me, me, the coal black sea waits forever'

I do not understand my own mind, and this frightens me.

I laid awake last night watching my mind roll from thought to thought and as I lay there I wondered, amazed, who's driving this thing ? So, what was I thinking of, or not thinking of, well there were images, flashes of light, sad memories, wishes, weather patterns, the dead, lightening a thoroughly random list. All of these scenes kept rolling, real fast like, speedy, and the moment I tried to zero in on one thing the whole of reality came crashing in around me, the moment I tried to focus on any one thing I was suddenly made aware of my room, the cracking heat pipes, the smell of stale cigarettes, the sight of my blanket, a blanket I had taken from Jess so many years ago (you won't use this I said, what the fuck was the matter with me, I mean, christ, you know I said that only because I wanted the thing for myself, utterly embarrassing, a blanket Jesus man, I disgust myself).

Anyway, as you can read, the crashing reality was quite boring, uncomfortable even, so I practiced being unfocussed for a very long time, and I must have gotten quite good at it, because for what was likely a couple of hours I was nowhere. At about 5:oo am I was startled by a neighbour leaving for work and once back into reality sleep came easy.

A few hours later, waking up, I wondered just how the space of that mental nowhere somehow manages to shape itself into a boy, into me? And, I don't know at all how to answer this, but one thing that's starting to seem more and more clear to me is that it's not natural at all, this person, this waking body, is not natural. I mean when would I say I'm natural? Well, I probably would never say that, it's a bad question, but, say, if I were asked the question, when do things seem to come natural to me? When I'm at rest, comfortable, not putting on 'a face to meet the faces that you meet' as T.S. would say, etc. Ah, but isn't this still an illusion of comfort I've created for myself? How can it be anything else? I think I hold onto my mind because it's comfortable, or uncomfortable, or familiar, or whatever, but certainly not beacuse it's real. I think that maybe the truer mental state is in those with Alzheimers, or those diagnosed as 'insane,' raw synapses working to keep the heart beating. So what do I think I'll find here while holding onto this illustion? Nothing I haven't thought of already, and that, it seems to me, is the biggest joke of them all.