June 2006

Thursday, June 22, 2006

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took almost a week off and I still do not sleep more than four hours. At first I got worried, but now occupy the land stay awake while reading or exercising. I may end up giving me a shower and again I go to bed. When not obsessed with the idea of \u200b\u200bhaving to sleep, just try to relax and enjoy the rest. I know sleep sooner or later, however slightly. However, sleep is usually not the intended goal. What I am trying to achieve is almost always a state of dozing stunned, almost ecstatic, as a result only of physical exhaustion and over-stimulation. When those moments come, which I consider valuable, I practice meditation techniques that I'm inventing on the fly and try to silence the voice of my conscience with the rhythm of my heart or the breathing of my wife.

But the little voice always remains there, however much they try to ignore it. At first it's a blah-blah-blah perfectly clear and intelligible. With some effort the speech becomes more blurred, almost liquid. The liquid evaporates a little patience, but there is always a condensation rusty entrenched in ever deeper layers of my mind, lurking like a tumor. I can get silenced, but their presence does not evaporate ever vigilant. At this point I start constructing situations in which the passage of my thought becomes flesh, skin, fat, blood, bile, bone and cartilage.

I then start my techniques oneironauts more violent. Here we are, me and my awareness of sameness, measuring ourselves to each other. I am full of resentment, I tremble with rage. I decide to act and then choking him with the pillow, and I spit, and broke his teeth kicked out. We tear the jugular snacks, snatched the ball with his hands. I feel like your joints creak broken, I can smell your blood, hear the gurgling whistle of the ribs punctured lungs burst. I feel I'm running with it, but that feeling always ends up meaning something to me, and that construction continues to be a process generated by my own opponent.

My enemy is a whore factory to give meaning, a tagger inescapable visceral, exhausting, exasperating. I can see how, in each of his wounds, trickled thin and compact arise from a semen-as-silk weave on our bodies wounded. Factory meanings my balls is forming with a sheet that ends up covering, and liquefied engulf oneself. When the liquid boils, the vapors can be glimpsed always something new, a concept, a situation, a single word, a memory. But it's always something with meaning. And my opponent, that is myself, and always let me know of his victory. It is a duel of infinite mirrors and ridiculous you'll only find a definitive end to what the Mexicans call the tabloids bony.

My morning meditation techniques always lead to death. Seem to evoke in a somewhat tricky and definitely wrong, and many many nights of childhood in which he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to quell a terrible fear of death compared with a dreamless sleep. Dreamless sleep. Dreamless sleep, death is dreamless sleep. Again and again, in a friendly mantra when words ceased to have the original sense to merge into a new ocean of meanings of dreams.

dreamless sleep is unthinkable in childhood. Dreamless sleep is impossible but it feels as most likely into old age. The shortage of dreams then would become, as dementia, in a bloodless advance of death. Like when you let a child touch the food before swallowing for the viscous or rugged touch does not find it repulsive.

In childhood it is impossible not to sleep and it is impossible not to dream. In the old dream and sleep much less. I, on the long journey that separates me from either end, sleep and dream that I'm not that trill.