streams and such

ok... I've worried for a while that my thoughts have become too disjointed, too fluid and incoherent. I'll see something, a well of impressions will rush onto me, and when I attempt to sort them out, all that happens is lateral perception of other things which are inspired by them. And thus I'm accidentally pulled in another direction, but it's kind of interesting except for the fact that I can never really know where it's going or why it's moving that way but still enjoy the ride. Anyway... I thought I had tempered this to a semblance of coherence recently – I could actually read books for more than five minutes without spiraling off into a daydream or tangential notion; my personal writing felt directional, as opposed to the previous insignificant drift it always demonstrated; even conversations with people felt substantial, not simply passing winds of exchange that would dissipate from me with the same ease which characterized their inception. All this until nothing more than a few drinks – what's a rum and coke, with a gin and tonic a few hours later, and a bit of vodka with water to captivate the buzz? I don't drink to get drunk; I fucking hate binge drinkers. It's such a goddamn waste of a nice sensation, and a pure demonstration of the inability to grasp and utilize the sensual rhythm behind the activity. But surely enough, I end up in a phone conversation, talking about how body parts have independent consciousnesses and how cool it would be to inhabit just one of them in isolation, or perhaps alternate throughout them at whim. This is not good. I don't need abstractions now, I don't need intelligence, I don't want to be challenged. My perception has tossed itself into a disparate haze of dark pleasure, and my thinking won't travel along any line except that of the lateral. But OK, let's talk consciousness, cause I just so happened to be reading some Sartre recently and oh shit what a perfect correlation to Being-for-itself and how you can only apprehend a conscious awareness of something by being conscious of the fact that you have become conscious of it pre-reflectively which means that just maybe you can somehow -- even transiently -- escape this conscious awareness and nihilation and inject yourself into the consciousness of that very thing -- the appearance, the being which traverses continuously. But wait, why the fuck am I seeing a river now? And green pastures and mountains. "I want to be a river." That shit from Siddhartha flashes through my head, except not in a pseudo-philosophical way -- I can actually feel the river's presence, and realize that like the octopus with independent limbs, it too has its own consciousness that I long to inhabit. Anything to escape my own, to move past the incessant breezes and unexpected turns in course. And then silence -- after that, after bringing up the octopus and the desire to inhabit independent bodily consciousnesses and all that shit, simply leaving me on a web of tangents, like I'm being held out on a plank without being pushed off the boat. I can't drown myself, for fuck's sake. Go away Sartre, you're full of shit; there is no river or mountains or fingers, and I don't need any consciousness. I just need this clutter to end. So I hung up -- I had to. Then I passed out.