Riding my bike into lack of reality
Morning’s gloom and crisp cold freeze the brain so, that it perceives of blank writing screen as of something lined with wadding in which characters are strewn or embroidered in undulating rows on the terraces of the respective lines., at times more pulling them out of the wadding rather than inserting them into it.
The keys bearing weird characters themselves, look like little irregular cubes from bones, sitting in a jelly like shelf moving erratically around in their assigned position, from where they can be hit in order do build coherence in this grey and indeterminate wadding space…the moving characters are hit by try and error, keep their swimming movement in their lines and sometimes skip characters, already inserted. Writing like this resembles bringing a flock of characters into an alignment that can convey sense, but is sabotaged by the resilience of the flocking characters who are completely void of understanding and perceptions of sense, whatsoever. There association seems to be guided rather by something in the bathe of physical conditions of the waded space.
Listening to Bruckner’s Symphony no. 9 is only intensifying the derealisation, as it seems to attract characters out of their linguistic bonds into the blurring, glistening free realm of sound and musical structure…. whence restlessness within the forming text increases permanently .
If that means losing grip on reality, I am not suffering from it. I am on the contrary, enjoying it…