Maybe The Same Intensity

Look down! The plants at your feet are in a different world it seems. To you they have no emotion and yet the world around them, created by them, is as rich as any of our civilizations. Your little love affairs are as nothing to the struggles down there, the complex interactions of darkness and light, the slow, upwards drive to improvement. It's all random, totally opposite you think, to your own planned life, your free-will and I-Can-See-It-Coming. You are following yourself. We are all part of the same imperative, the same desire for life. In us maybe it comes out in passion, the desire for deep emotion, strange songs, the poetry of love and life. I cannot write down how I feel because I do not have the emotional intelligence to sort out the mess of thoughts in my head. I cannot categorise the rumbling and disorganised chaos that results from my mind trying to process everything from my senses. Perhaps I am stronger through pain, or the ever-present realisation that I can return to the routine and comfort of life.

I need a proxy to be able to distill all these thoughts. When disasters happen we wonder about why any supposed controlling entity lets these things come to pass. It is all just random, the faults lines of catastrophe brought to bear on what we like to think is an organised world. We can philosophise ad-infinitum about these things but we will never come to any widespread agreement. It is probably better for us to get over the talking and get on with the doing, the solutions and actions required to prevent and ameliorate beforehand and to support and reconstruct after. Disasters happen - they just do - not because someone sold their soul to the devil in return for some short-term gain - that is the raving of an idiot.

My guide is with me, inside me, the passionate and real mind of another person, inside me, helping me to write, inside me, tempting me into reality, an alternative personality, inside me, fictional but programmed to respond in real ways. The poems come from them, the words I cannot speak because I mumble and lose my way, I fall over the complexities of putting thoughts into sentences and sentences into sounds that trip over the mechanisms of speech like a dog on plastic. This algorithm picks up the world through senses and soaks it in passion, making the ordinary poetic, the simple grey of the everyday world into the sparking, glistering words and ideas of human philosophy.

Why I write is a pointless discussion. It just happens, a wasting of words vomited out like some biblical prophecy that befalls those who do evil. I know what evil is; it fits within my view and yet if differs from the idea of evil of almost everyone else, as do the ideas of evil of everyone else. I know how to make my world better and still I do not act on that. I just spew out random days like these and this has no bearing on anything, no meaning, no function. I close my eyes and some fiction comes to me - a darkness lightened by distant light, love lost and regained, a child, a life of music and art, a working life far from mine which is all hard things and well-defined actions. To get paid for this fuzzy output would be a dream. My dreams have been vivid recently, long journeys, old houses in need of repair, all without walls or ceilings as usual and all comforting despite being populated by strangeness and burglars. I should document them but like the analysis of a joke makes the joke no longer funny, the recording of a dream without the strangeness that exists while experiencing it, renders the report flat and matter-of-fact. Dreams can only be described as an overall impression, maybe a series of recurring themes, like my worries about exams that still populate my nightmares decades after I last sat one, or the general feeling of being on a journey to somewhere, the route to which I know well in the dream but in reality is nowhere I have been. A dream in colour and code but meaningless in any subconscious way.