The sleep is so good that I'm not dreaming anymore. That kinda worries me, as I've always found my dreams - as weird as they get - to give me really fun analysis to do through the day. There have been no french girls piggybacking me lately, no dogs with oversized jaws chasing, no murders to investigate, no hanging out with dead friends, no sorceresses making out, no deaths, no snakes. If Freud had me under observation, he'd pull me out on the grounds of sleeping too peacefully. Maybe the weird part of me stems from this interface between my conscious and subconscious, breaking which might just make me less abnormal, which I dread! Freaky is good sometimes.
At a more worldly evaluation, I've already expressed how it affects my professional life (which I'm expecting to terminate soon - but that's for another narrative as well). Besides that, now my "regimen" also bears a fractured look - I didn't go out this morn as well, much like yesterday, which means that my sub-90-minute half-marathon ambitions will not be realized this Sunday; I'll probably be running like the other gazillion who show up in the name of validation.
*1 with an ulterior vision to convert it into a base for the debauched (okay, exaggerated word usage), so that friends come expecting a death, and really do find it here. Death, here, means an overnight re-appropriation of one's worldly (and otherworldly) concerns - and the modes of death being an assortment of alco, (evil) music, (evil) conversations, flavored hookah, tobacco, cannabis indica, bob hope, and Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche readings. Note the emphasis on evil - yes, it has to be, so none of your Justin Bieber, or Arcade Fire, or Coldplay, or T20 cricket get involved.
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