Thursday, 20 October 2011

Driving to Work

The whole concept of different locations is of course a mere fabrication of my unconscious mind. I exist in some form, but possibly not in familiar form. Places themselves, let alone travel between, may not be required in order to host my existence.

I assume that work, like other activities in my imagined life, fulfils some purpose that I can only guess at. It may be that grind, repetition and boredom experienced routinely over a period of time builds an ability to withstand, hold firm and persevere. A preparation for something beyond this consciousness? An ironic reflection of my true isolation and pointlessness? Given the enjoyment that other people appear to derive from their professions, perhaps even a gesture of defiance and refusal to make things easy for myself?

It follows that the journey to work is likely some kind of ground-laying exercise for the goals my unconscious has set. A flicking of a switch to allow some kind of learning, development or even degradation to resume. Obstacles which must be overcome on the way to work allow me to reach a state in which this unknowable transformation can take place.

The journey has become longer, more arduous of late. This could signify a new stage in my growth. A new 'location' might correspond to a new or altered goal. Or it could simply be a jolt to keep my experiences fresh and my ability to osmose keen.

(Roughly translated: Awful drive to work today.)

Wednesday, 12 October 2011

Hello Me

It's as distressing as it is awe-inspiring. On the one hand, the world my subconscious mind has created is undeniably magnificent, full of the most lavish collection of beautiful places, incredible things, and wonderful creatures. My inventiveness is neverending, my imagination bewildering, my sheer creative energy immense. I am a genius. A god. Perhaps THE God.

On the other hand, despite the luxurious fixtures and fittings in the virtual home of my imagination, I am alone. Despite the fantastic and limitless distractions at my disposal, only I am real. Only I have the potential to be of some worth, and yet I am imprisoned, perhaps perpetually, in a fantasy of my own creation.

It's pointless expressing this idea, particularly in a 'public forum' such as this. But then it does pass the time. And perhaps that's the only point there is.