Man I Had A Dreadful Flight

Warning - Stream of consciousness to follow:

Tired for no reason I can see. Not a stressful day, nothing worth reporting, really. Just... tired. Can't think, but at the same time, can't sleep. Weird sort of insomnia state, self-hypnosis with no real point. Borderline.

Borderline what? Depression? No. No self-recrimination. No self-destructive thoughts. Thoughts slow. Glacial. Getting colder here. Snow on the mountain. Going to be good for skiing soon. Can't seem to use explicit subjects. Non-standard grammar; English isn't pro-drop.

Why does grammar come up now? This makes no sense. Am I internalizing it? Internalizing is only good when it comes to language. Emotions shouldn't be bottled up. Am I bottling something up? Too many questions. No answers forthcoming. Irritating. Like a mental itch that I don't know how to scratch, or even how to ask someone else to scratch it for me. Sleep would blot it out.

Can't sleep. Should, but can't. Dunno why. Circular. Neverending circle, bringing me right back. Is there a point? Should be. Maybe look at things sideways? Doesn't help. Lines. Lines of thought, like breadlines, unemployment lines. Neurons marching in formation with no end in sight. Craving release, freeform thought. Dreams blurring, faces running together. Wax and the face of God, exploding for box-office gold. Smoke and mirrors, bread and circuses.

Haven't made bread since I came here. Need to change that. Warm crust, soft inside. Person or food? Food is consumed; people renew, share. Flow. Water. Lava. Love.

Larva? No. Non-sequitur two steps removed. Two steps... even bigger leap? Mars? More?

More what? Thought's lost. Feel lost. Know what I'm doing, where I am. Wherefore lost? Convoluted plots; not on TV. Living it. All mental, ping-pong in the mind. Solitaire table tennis; small white sphere of light/sense, paddle of self, table of world. Constant pinging the IP address of reality - eyes, ears, nose, skin, tongue. Sense it, learn it, know it, understand it, change it. What is it?

It - infinitely malleable, singularly specific. Model for reality? Ni!

Live to tell the tale. Live the tale. Be the tale. Not making sense again. No checks on rambling, wandering. Sensorium desert. Not quite 24 years wandering. Too much metaphor, not enough meaning. Bah.

Later, flipsiders.