I have started another blog, Literary Asylum Disorder, which I intend to use for short stories and self-counseling. While I have tried to keep this blog relatively academic in nature, I intend Literary Asylum to be raw and even a little demented.
I love to write and play around with words, but I wish I wasn’t typing them. At least when you write with ink you can smell it or stain your fingers. Typing is so sterile. When I type an awesome word or phrase, or blessed be, create a phenomenal metaphor or euphemism that becomes a meme for intense social criticism, I don’t want to type it. I want to go beyond that, and smash it into some slate, hack off a chunk of ice, or burn or blow something up. Maybe even lose my fingertip in the process. While my brain is at war with ideas that seek validation in the smoky ethos of finding a consciousness that accepts the world, my body sits numb and lifeless in a chair.
The eyes flash with rage. The mouth drools by the keyboard.
I wanted to create this blog as a literary outlet for the times when I feel seriously dissociated and fragmented. My asylum stories, which you can read on the Asylum Stories page, are really just the times when I feel that I’ve hurled my brain against the wall and tried to pick up the pieces.
I have often wondered if the depression I get is clinical, or if it’s just part of the natural course of life. However, now I don’t even want to consult anyone about it because I have grown accustomed to it. After the bouts of depression, almost as if my body is trying to make up for it, I feel over-alive, where my senses and creative faculties are enhanced. I wouldn’t change these moments for the world. I’m also not sure if one leads to the other. When I experience heightened creativity, I feel like this very act is like digging a hole down into my brain, and I’m just waiting to fall in and experience the depression as I attempt to claw my way back out.
Anyway, this blog is about me being lost in my brain, and my humunculus vibrating in my nervous tissue like a fly caught in a spider’s web.
I may even try to eat myself.