Moist
Starting things without a clear purpose is something I am both terrible and adept at doing. The space between I ‘will’ do something and I ‘am’ doing something is a vast ugly chasm in my world. If I tell you I ‘will’ do something or that I want to do something, it might get done. It means the decision is not made. Between decision and action for me there is no space. For me a decision isn’t the leap off the cliff, but the moment after.
People who blog, far as I can tell, generally operate under the usually poor assumption that they have something to say that somebody else will give a damn about. I don’t believe that I do. I don’t believe that I don’t. What I do know is that my view of the world, my experiences, my thoughts, are unique to me. I’m different, just like everyone else as the old joke goes. I surprise people, on occasion. I’m told frequently that I have a “fresh perspective” or an “active mind” when they are being nice. I’m told I have an “overactive imagination” and am “illogical and irrational” when they are not feeling so kind.
When I was little I thought I was just different, that I must smell funny or talk weird or something, because I had a terrible time understanding my peers and getting along with them. As I grew, I realized I was experiencing a very different reality than most people. I have a mind that explores possibilities and associations to the point of obsessive imagining and occasionally near catatonic visual states. I exist in a world that is rich with visuals I hardly understand on a cognitive, rational level. I swim through this world, picking a path utilizing both habits and observation that allows me to function in the world that others around me dwell in. I’m not in a different world, merely one that is the same and more. For years I feared I was crazy. I read about psychology and disorders and was unable to diagnose myself. I finally ended up going to the professionals and they were unable to do any better. I’ve got a lot of imagination, was basically the sum of the findings. So I’ve come to what I feel is the only rational and human conclusion about my brain’s workings that I possibly can live with at this time.
It’s not me. It’s you. Yeah, you, i.e. the people who are not me. It isn’t that my imagination is overly stimulated or that I live in some sort of freaky continual dreamstate. No, it’s you. You’re all underdeveloped, under-imaginative, under-stimulated. You live in a world where your food doesn’t try to escape or change colors suddenly, where the tiny hole in the ceiling isn’t the eye of a roof-beast recording your every move. (Stupid roof-beasts.)
That is the point of this blog. It isn’t a conversation. I’m not aiming for brilliance, merely communication. Reading this won’t be a beam of light from my mind into your eye, painful and somehow effective. No one ever opened their eyes wider to see better in the bright light anyway. I’m imaginative. You’re not. Simple premise. Welcome.
There aren’t any roof-beasts, by the way. I’m sure if I went and got a chair I could prove it to myself. I’d reach up and touch the white plaster, run my fingers around the dark spot above me. Maybe if I pull on the edges until I can get my hand inside I’ll be able to keep going. Maybe it isn’t an eye at all, but a portal. I could pull it open until it was a gaping rift from my world to somewhere other. A place dark and cool, smelling faintly of wet grass and salt. I could easily find out where the passage leads. All it will take is a chair, and a little imagination.