Tonight I had a triple-layered lucid dream. I think that's the most layers I've had for a good while, and the coolest thing about it is that while I was partially in control of the dream, there were still other agents inside it that I couldn't directly do anything about. I realized that I was dreaming, but I also realized that I wasn't the only dreamer.
It started out fairly straightforward, with an attack on my apartment by bizarre hybrid monsters, such as a gorilla with a terror bird head instead of its right arm. I tried running away from said monsters, but then they started fighting each other; one of them was trying to help me. Before I could properly heed its warning and escape, though, two agents showed up and attacked me, and I was sucked into some kind of vortex and dispatched in a dream-world, a prison world full of mutants, some more human-seeming than others. There, I stumbled upon knowledge of who was behind the plot; one of the agents had an obsession with Napoleon, and using that information I tracked him down and learned that his employer was one of the Fair Folk, a queen of some sort.
It gets crazier. I managed to figure out that I was actually stuck in a dream world at some point around here, and so I tried to escape by waking up. I did, and then went about my day as normal, until I found myself in a grocery store, suddenly surrounded by big crowds of customers asking me how to find everything they were looking for. Eventually it dawned upon me that I was still stuck in a dream, and that my plot hadn't worked. By magical dream logic, I deduced that while I was dreaming, that didn't actually put me on my home turf; the Fair Folk are masters of dream, and can easily snare you even inside your own head. I figured out how to find one of her agents, disguised as a worker in the meat and delicacies section, and entered battle with him. An epic fight ensued, me using dream-shaping against a guy armed with a meat cleaver. Eventually I managed to turn the dream against him, making him forget who he was and turning him into a teenage girl, then ridiculing him until he ran away crying.
Then I made an attempt to wake up. Unfortunately, I still didn't escape, and woke up into an alternate reality instead, one in which I had died five years ago when an obelisk fell on me. I tried desperately to find someone who had known me before my death, but I couldn't find anyone. Eventually I met with a gang of criminals, containing some people I know in real life, but who didn't know me due to the fact that I was dead in this reality - but I managed to convince them to help me, which was good because the other agent was still on my tail.
Here's where it really gets crazy: One of my new gangster friends gave me a cup of noodles, and the cup made me remember the rules for Shaping Combat from Exalted. I realized that, since I was probably still in a dream, I could use these to my advantage. So I shaped away the final agent using the Cup of Desire, turning him into a loving family father, making him forget himself forever. Then I broke free of this dream as well.
That's where I am at now. Two agents have been destroyed, shaped away into dream-figments. The Queen is still out there. I didn't defeat her, but I managed to break free of her. I'm awake.
...at least I think so.
lördag 2 april 2011
lördag 26 mars 2011
The Fangirl and I
So I was thinking about major money-grabbing corporations after reading Iceye's little post about the Nintendo DS. I... don't really have anything to comment on it since I don't know the first thing about Nintendo DS. However, it got me thinking about Quality again, specifically lack of quality, which I presume is what she implies about Disney in that post.
In the last post, I talked about what is good. Now I wonder, what is bad? Do I have any right whatsoever to declare a given piece of artwork "bad"? I... honestly can't come up with any arguments for this. It's easier to argue for good; this is something inexplicable that we feel, that resonates within us without rhyme or reason. This I can live with.
Bad art, though, comes with a more fundamental problem. At least when I see something that I think is beautiful and good, I know this. But bad art generally creates weaker emotions - generally, a failure to provoke any kind of thought or emotion at all is a sign of bad art (unless it's so bad it's good, but that's another thing - let's not bring comedy into this, comedy is the single most incomprehensible thing in the world to me). Bad art is bad because it doesn't do anything, much like a broken piece of machinery doesn't do anything. It's useless. It lacks utility.
But maybe that's just because I can't understand it? There's tons of art out there, that I would consider bad but which clearly resonates with people, clearly makes them feel very strongly about it. When teenage girls rail about Edward vs. Jacob, they do it because they have very, very strong feelings about it. As a matter of fact, the rabid devotion of a fangirl is probably a far more powerful emotion than anything I have ever felt as a result of any work of art. How can this be? How can there be so much fantastic, passion-inspiring, truly wonderful art out there that I just can't get?
In other words, this is my thesis: If I read, for instance, Twilight and don't feel very strongly about the book, that's a very sad thing, because it means I'm reading it wrong. Clearly there is a certain way of enjoying this book - a certain point of view - which makes it inspire true passion. Which makes it better than anything I have ever encountered. Failure to enjoy it is a tremendous loss, one which I can make up for with other works of art, but still. There's something here that I'm missing. That I won't be able to experience.
To use a poorly-constructed simile: "What if my true love really is out there, except we're both male, and we're both straight as arrows"? Something wonderful which you're missing out on because of preferences which you can't change, preferences which are just hard-coded into you for no good reason.
It's pretty sad, don't you think?
In the last post, I talked about what is good. Now I wonder, what is bad? Do I have any right whatsoever to declare a given piece of artwork "bad"? I... honestly can't come up with any arguments for this. It's easier to argue for good; this is something inexplicable that we feel, that resonates within us without rhyme or reason. This I can live with.
Bad art, though, comes with a more fundamental problem. At least when I see something that I think is beautiful and good, I know this. But bad art generally creates weaker emotions - generally, a failure to provoke any kind of thought or emotion at all is a sign of bad art (unless it's so bad it's good, but that's another thing - let's not bring comedy into this, comedy is the single most incomprehensible thing in the world to me). Bad art is bad because it doesn't do anything, much like a broken piece of machinery doesn't do anything. It's useless. It lacks utility.
But maybe that's just because I can't understand it? There's tons of art out there, that I would consider bad but which clearly resonates with people, clearly makes them feel very strongly about it. When teenage girls rail about Edward vs. Jacob, they do it because they have very, very strong feelings about it. As a matter of fact, the rabid devotion of a fangirl is probably a far more powerful emotion than anything I have ever felt as a result of any work of art. How can this be? How can there be so much fantastic, passion-inspiring, truly wonderful art out there that I just can't get?
In other words, this is my thesis: If I read, for instance, Twilight and don't feel very strongly about the book, that's a very sad thing, because it means I'm reading it wrong. Clearly there is a certain way of enjoying this book - a certain point of view - which makes it inspire true passion. Which makes it better than anything I have ever encountered. Failure to enjoy it is a tremendous loss, one which I can make up for with other works of art, but still. There's something here that I'm missing. That I won't be able to experience.
To use a poorly-constructed simile: "What if my true love really is out there, except we're both male, and we're both straight as arrows"? Something wonderful which you're missing out on because of preferences which you can't change, preferences which are just hard-coded into you for no good reason.
It's pretty sad, don't you think?
lördag 12 mars 2011
The Good Delusion
My philosophy of values is something that gets revisited a lot on this blog. What with it being called Absurd Heroes and all, I suppose that's not really strange - philosophy of values is something I place a lot of value in. Ironic, I know.
So, let's for a moment go over the basic idea behind absurdism again. Absurdism states that there are no inherent values - the world is meaningless and devoid of any real content, save for what values we invent for ourselves. The idea behind the philosophy is that causes - something to champion, something to be a hero for - fill our lives with meaning. Essentially, any goal we set is arbitrary and meaningless, but the struggle towards that goal is meaningful, because of the challenge it poses, because it keeps us moving. When Sisyphus gets the rock to the top of the mountain, it rolls down on the other side - nothing is achieved, nothing has happened - but the struggle to push the rock gives him something to do.
So much for values as in goals. The struggle to create a good fiction, or a nice drawing, or a beautiful piece of music, are valuable; the outcome basically isn't really important. So what of being a patron of the arts? Is enjoying art also an entirely arbitrary thing? Maybe. I'm thinking it probably is.
The reason I'm philosophizing about this is because I just watched a magical girl transformation sequence and started crying. My thoughts at the moment were basically "My God, this is so beautiful". Yes, you read that right. I was deeply touched by a cartoon depicting a poorly-drawn girl spouting random English nonsense and then magically changing into a pretty outfit. Now, normally - to protect my pride - I would probably blame this reaction on sleep deprivation, or making some association, or some other excuse. But the fact remains: I was deeply touched. I felt the essence of True Art for a moment, art that moved and inspired me.
And I'm thinking, can you argue for something being True Art and something else not being? I don't think so. Beauty, or Quality, much like a religious experience, is something which cannot be quantified, measured, or established in repeatable experiments. Just like God, it's only something we feel, not something we can ever prove. So when we say, "This is a good song", we are saying essentially the same thing as "I felt the presence of God". You are saying you felt something, the existence of which you cannot prove, an intangible, unquantifiable, unmeasurable something, with no substance, no essence, no form. You're essentially saying you saw something that for all intents and purposes doesn't exist.
And yet, there are trends. There are some things that are more widely considered beautiful, and there are whole academic fields devoted to trying to understand quality. And there are shortcuts, like the golden ratio, or tropes, or literary techniques, which are recipes that will likely result in something of quality. But we won't find universal consensus. The whole thing reminds me a bit of the ancient Jews, reading the Torah and trying to understand the nature of God, trying to say, "This here text proves that God is good, because it describes benevolence in his actions", much like a literary critic might say, "This here text proves that Catcher in the Rye is good, because it describes its expert usage of the unreliable narrator technique". In both cases, you can flatly deny the arguments. "It is true because it's in the Bible", they say, and you say, "But I don't believe the Bible is true, and you can't prove it. You can't even demonstrate it, actually - you can't even provide indications that it might be."
And yet, I think, a lot of people claim that Good is something real. You'd certainly think so, what with how hurt people can be when you insult their favourite pieces of art. Firefly sucks. The Final Fantasy series is for losers. Hyperion is a terrible book.
It hurts, doesn't it? It feels so wrong somehow. Art is very important to us. And yet we haven't even got a clue what it actually is.
So, let's for a moment go over the basic idea behind absurdism again. Absurdism states that there are no inherent values - the world is meaningless and devoid of any real content, save for what values we invent for ourselves. The idea behind the philosophy is that causes - something to champion, something to be a hero for - fill our lives with meaning. Essentially, any goal we set is arbitrary and meaningless, but the struggle towards that goal is meaningful, because of the challenge it poses, because it keeps us moving. When Sisyphus gets the rock to the top of the mountain, it rolls down on the other side - nothing is achieved, nothing has happened - but the struggle to push the rock gives him something to do.
So much for values as in goals. The struggle to create a good fiction, or a nice drawing, or a beautiful piece of music, are valuable; the outcome basically isn't really important. So what of being a patron of the arts? Is enjoying art also an entirely arbitrary thing? Maybe. I'm thinking it probably is.
The reason I'm philosophizing about this is because I just watched a magical girl transformation sequence and started crying. My thoughts at the moment were basically "My God, this is so beautiful". Yes, you read that right. I was deeply touched by a cartoon depicting a poorly-drawn girl spouting random English nonsense and then magically changing into a pretty outfit. Now, normally - to protect my pride - I would probably blame this reaction on sleep deprivation, or making some association, or some other excuse. But the fact remains: I was deeply touched. I felt the essence of True Art for a moment, art that moved and inspired me.
And I'm thinking, can you argue for something being True Art and something else not being? I don't think so. Beauty, or Quality, much like a religious experience, is something which cannot be quantified, measured, or established in repeatable experiments. Just like God, it's only something we feel, not something we can ever prove. So when we say, "This is a good song", we are saying essentially the same thing as "I felt the presence of God". You are saying you felt something, the existence of which you cannot prove, an intangible, unquantifiable, unmeasurable something, with no substance, no essence, no form. You're essentially saying you saw something that for all intents and purposes doesn't exist.
And yet, there are trends. There are some things that are more widely considered beautiful, and there are whole academic fields devoted to trying to understand quality. And there are shortcuts, like the golden ratio, or tropes, or literary techniques, which are recipes that will likely result in something of quality. But we won't find universal consensus. The whole thing reminds me a bit of the ancient Jews, reading the Torah and trying to understand the nature of God, trying to say, "This here text proves that God is good, because it describes benevolence in his actions", much like a literary critic might say, "This here text proves that Catcher in the Rye is good, because it describes its expert usage of the unreliable narrator technique". In both cases, you can flatly deny the arguments. "It is true because it's in the Bible", they say, and you say, "But I don't believe the Bible is true, and you can't prove it. You can't even demonstrate it, actually - you can't even provide indications that it might be."
And yet, I think, a lot of people claim that Good is something real. You'd certainly think so, what with how hurt people can be when you insult their favourite pieces of art. Firefly sucks. The Final Fantasy series is for losers. Hyperion is a terrible book.
It hurts, doesn't it? It feels so wrong somehow. Art is very important to us. And yet we haven't even got a clue what it actually is.
söndag 27 februari 2011
Chop wood, carry water
"Before enlightenment: Chop wood, carry water. After enlightenment: Chop wood, carry water." - Zen proverb
So I went back home again. Many of you already know this, but some don't.
Here's the full story.
I went to the airport. I got on the plane, no problem, and I made it to China, no problem. I discovered that my language skills, while severely lacking, were enough for me to communicate with the taxi driver and to get to the university. I could even ask directions to the admissions office and get a dorm room in Chinese, with some help from an English-speaking student to help explain the documents I was signing.
In short, I was much more capable than I had expected. I got myself a dorm room, I enrolled, I had the schedule, I had everything fixed, and I was ready to move into my new room and unpack. So I opened my bag, and remembered that Sara had helped me pack, and I thought, "How would I get by without her? Oh- wait."
That was the first though. It was almost enough, but to be certain, I did some more thinking.
It eventually became clear to me that I had known all along what I wanted, but I had let my fears drown it out. Now, however, I wasn't afraid. I had faced my fear of going to China, and I knew - without a doubt - that I could do it. Which made me realize that the reason I didn't want to go wasn't only that I was afraid, it was also that I simply didn't want to.
So I went back home again. Now, it's the normal humdrum life for me again. Well, almost.
Chop wood, carry water.
So I went back home again. Many of you already know this, but some don't.
Here's the full story.
I went to the airport. I got on the plane, no problem, and I made it to China, no problem. I discovered that my language skills, while severely lacking, were enough for me to communicate with the taxi driver and to get to the university. I could even ask directions to the admissions office and get a dorm room in Chinese, with some help from an English-speaking student to help explain the documents I was signing.
In short, I was much more capable than I had expected. I got myself a dorm room, I enrolled, I had the schedule, I had everything fixed, and I was ready to move into my new room and unpack. So I opened my bag, and remembered that Sara had helped me pack, and I thought, "How would I get by without her? Oh- wait."
That was the first though. It was almost enough, but to be certain, I did some more thinking.
It eventually became clear to me that I had known all along what I wanted, but I had let my fears drown it out. Now, however, I wasn't afraid. I had faced my fear of going to China, and I knew - without a doubt - that I could do it. Which made me realize that the reason I didn't want to go wasn't only that I was afraid, it was also that I simply didn't want to.
So I went back home again. Now, it's the normal humdrum life for me again. Well, almost.
Chop wood, carry water.
måndag 21 februari 2011
Wanting and Fearing, part 2
“I am a kind of paranoiac in reverse. I suspect people of plotting to make me happy.” - J.D. Salinger
I wrote about wanting and fearing a while back. I think that post was rather vague. I'm usually vague when I want to talk about something serious. I want to do my best not to be vague now. I'll try not to get poetic, or rambling, and just get down to what I want to say.
What I want to say is terribly frightening to confess. I wouldn't confess it under any other circumstances, but now I'm in a situation where all my bridges are burned, all exits are closed. I'm cornered and I'm basically fucked anyway, so I might as well say it.
I'll start with the confession, and then I'll explain why. This makes for poor textual structure, but I think I need to get out and say it. Here goes:
Tomorrow I will have a choice. I can either board the plane, or I can not board the plane. Whichever option I choose, I will be chickening out. Whichever option I choose, I will be succumbing to fear. No matter what I do, it will be incredibly unpleasant.
Virtually everything I do is motivated by fear. “Pleasure” in my mind is essentially just the absence of fear, with all other qualities being secondary. Which means that, when I make a choice, I generally go with the less frightening option. This is basically true in everything I do. You'd be surprised, really.
Which means that, in the question of going to China, I'm not considering what I want. At all. I claim I do, but I don't, because what I want is so tiny and insignificant compared to what I fear. So, on both sides of the argument, I have fears. On the “dont' go” side, I have a multitude of various fears – most pressingly, the fear of the unknown, but also, the fear of losing everyone I love. This is, I suppose, not very rational. What if everyone forgets me? Unlikely. What if everyone dies in a fire? Then I'd likely die in the same fire if I stayed anyway. An irrational fear. But fear, like want, doesn't have to be rational. We want because we want. We fear because we fear.
On the “do go” side, I have, most pressingly, the fear of losing everyone I love.
That is to say, I'm afraid that if I don't go, I will lose everyone I love. Because I'll be letting them down. I'll be letting you down.
This reasoning does not seem strange to me, because my most guiding, tangible, strong fear is the fear of being abandoned. It's always present, and it's always ridiculously disproportionate. This is the hardest part to admit. Even now, I'm afraid to say it – just writing it, even though nobody can even read it yet and I could just delete it after it appears on the screen. I always, always, always fear this. You think I trust you? On good days I do. On bad days (which is most of the time) I'm convinced that really, you only stick around because you haven't got an excuse to ditch me yet. No matter who you are. If you know me, it applies. It has applied since the day I met you.
And what better excuse to ditch me can you find than “talked all about China for several months and then finally chickened out and didn't go”? I think it's a pretty good excuse. It tells of a person who is all talk and no action, an overblown, self-important jackass who doesn't perform when push comes to shove. It's a classical trope.
Which is why, no matter what I choose, I'll be a coward. In the end I'm going to choose whichever option seems less frightening. I'm not sure what that's going to be yet. I've been pushing the choice until now, always leaving the back door open, desperately hoping for some third alternative, something which doesn't blind me with sheer terror. There doesn't seem to be one. I'm cornered.
Fear is all I have.
I wrote about wanting and fearing a while back. I think that post was rather vague. I'm usually vague when I want to talk about something serious. I want to do my best not to be vague now. I'll try not to get poetic, or rambling, and just get down to what I want to say.
What I want to say is terribly frightening to confess. I wouldn't confess it under any other circumstances, but now I'm in a situation where all my bridges are burned, all exits are closed. I'm cornered and I'm basically fucked anyway, so I might as well say it.
I'll start with the confession, and then I'll explain why. This makes for poor textual structure, but I think I need to get out and say it. Here goes:
Tomorrow I will have a choice. I can either board the plane, or I can not board the plane. Whichever option I choose, I will be chickening out. Whichever option I choose, I will be succumbing to fear. No matter what I do, it will be incredibly unpleasant.
Virtually everything I do is motivated by fear. “Pleasure” in my mind is essentially just the absence of fear, with all other qualities being secondary. Which means that, when I make a choice, I generally go with the less frightening option. This is basically true in everything I do. You'd be surprised, really.
Which means that, in the question of going to China, I'm not considering what I want. At all. I claim I do, but I don't, because what I want is so tiny and insignificant compared to what I fear. So, on both sides of the argument, I have fears. On the “dont' go” side, I have a multitude of various fears – most pressingly, the fear of the unknown, but also, the fear of losing everyone I love. This is, I suppose, not very rational. What if everyone forgets me? Unlikely. What if everyone dies in a fire? Then I'd likely die in the same fire if I stayed anyway. An irrational fear. But fear, like want, doesn't have to be rational. We want because we want. We fear because we fear.
On the “do go” side, I have, most pressingly, the fear of losing everyone I love.
That is to say, I'm afraid that if I don't go, I will lose everyone I love. Because I'll be letting them down. I'll be letting you down.
This reasoning does not seem strange to me, because my most guiding, tangible, strong fear is the fear of being abandoned. It's always present, and it's always ridiculously disproportionate. This is the hardest part to admit. Even now, I'm afraid to say it – just writing it, even though nobody can even read it yet and I could just delete it after it appears on the screen. I always, always, always fear this. You think I trust you? On good days I do. On bad days (which is most of the time) I'm convinced that really, you only stick around because you haven't got an excuse to ditch me yet. No matter who you are. If you know me, it applies. It has applied since the day I met you.
And what better excuse to ditch me can you find than “talked all about China for several months and then finally chickened out and didn't go”? I think it's a pretty good excuse. It tells of a person who is all talk and no action, an overblown, self-important jackass who doesn't perform when push comes to shove. It's a classical trope.
Which is why, no matter what I choose, I'll be a coward. In the end I'm going to choose whichever option seems less frightening. I'm not sure what that's going to be yet. I've been pushing the choice until now, always leaving the back door open, desperately hoping for some third alternative, something which doesn't blind me with sheer terror. There doesn't seem to be one. I'm cornered.
Fear is all I have.
söndag 20 februari 2011
The Facts
The facts were these:
That gmail appears to be accessible from China, as long as one accesses it via an email client and not via a browser. I have set this up.
That I will probably obtain an additional SIM card in China to be able to do local calls cheaply - exactly how to do this I haven't quite figured out, though. Maybe I'll have to buy a new phone again, anyway.
That I have made contact with a potential roleplaying group in China, but I don't really know the details yet.
That parting with Sara feels like cutting off an arm. Seriously. It's nauseating and physically painful.
Those are the facts.
That gmail appears to be accessible from China, as long as one accesses it via an email client and not via a browser. I have set this up.
That I will probably obtain an additional SIM card in China to be able to do local calls cheaply - exactly how to do this I haven't quite figured out, though. Maybe I'll have to buy a new phone again, anyway.
That I have made contact with a potential roleplaying group in China, but I don't really know the details yet.
That parting with Sara feels like cutting off an arm. Seriously. It's nauseating and physically painful.
Those are the facts.
torsdag 3 februari 2011
Eat. Breathe. Reproduce.
I know it isn't a particularly strange approach to the meaning of life. The theory of evolution has been suggesting this as the "meaning" since, well, since it was invented. We're here to eat, to breathe, to reproduce. We're here to propagate the species.
But I wonder - and this is what bothers me most about the theory of evolution - is that really it? I can live without a grand, cosmic plan, that doesn't bother me. I have no issue with a life in which we create our own meaning. Trouble is, are we really? Isn't there a grand meaning, one we didn't sign up for but got nonetheless? If the meaning of life is to maintain and create life, doesn't that make it all just a grand pyramid scheme in which we're forced to participate? "Sell our product to three of your friends, so that they can sell our product to nine more people, so that they, in turn, can sell our product to..." - "Create at least one new person, so that it can create at least one new person, so that it, in turn..."
Sure, we can try to screw the Grand Plan and just our own thing - we can declare, "I don't want children", and we can even kill or castrate ourselves, thus messing up the entire plan. But can we ever really escape? How do we know that our actions, intended to subvert the Grand Plan, aren't really serving it, by removing unsuitable elements from the gene pool? It may seem paranoid, even insane, to worry about the principle "Eat. Breathe. Reproduce." ruling our lives, but it bothers me. It bothers me because it seems so cruel, so ultimately tragic, that all the beautiful things in life should evolve as completely trivial side effects to a machine that was designed and optimized to eat, shit, and fuck.
"But why should that be a problem?" you ask, "Why can't we just enjoy the side effects, now that we have them?" - well, we can. And that is, after all, what I spend most of my time doing, so I don't have any particular problem with it, at least not one I can easily describe. But somehow, on some level, it feels wrong. It makes me feel like I'm a man who believes himself to see fairies and dragons where really there's only the cold, hard walls of his cell in the asylum. No doubt that man is happy, living an adventurous, exciting life inside his head - but he can't help but doubt, wonder, pick at some thoughts that shouldn't be picked at, secretly suspecting that whatever he believes, the cell is actually real, and the dragons actually aren't.
But I wonder - and this is what bothers me most about the theory of evolution - is that really it? I can live without a grand, cosmic plan, that doesn't bother me. I have no issue with a life in which we create our own meaning. Trouble is, are we really? Isn't there a grand meaning, one we didn't sign up for but got nonetheless? If the meaning of life is to maintain and create life, doesn't that make it all just a grand pyramid scheme in which we're forced to participate? "Sell our product to three of your friends, so that they can sell our product to nine more people, so that they, in turn, can sell our product to..." - "Create at least one new person, so that it can create at least one new person, so that it, in turn..."
Sure, we can try to screw the Grand Plan and just our own thing - we can declare, "I don't want children", and we can even kill or castrate ourselves, thus messing up the entire plan. But can we ever really escape? How do we know that our actions, intended to subvert the Grand Plan, aren't really serving it, by removing unsuitable elements from the gene pool? It may seem paranoid, even insane, to worry about the principle "Eat. Breathe. Reproduce." ruling our lives, but it bothers me. It bothers me because it seems so cruel, so ultimately tragic, that all the beautiful things in life should evolve as completely trivial side effects to a machine that was designed and optimized to eat, shit, and fuck.
"But why should that be a problem?" you ask, "Why can't we just enjoy the side effects, now that we have them?" - well, we can. And that is, after all, what I spend most of my time doing, so I don't have any particular problem with it, at least not one I can easily describe. But somehow, on some level, it feels wrong. It makes me feel like I'm a man who believes himself to see fairies and dragons where really there's only the cold, hard walls of his cell in the asylum. No doubt that man is happy, living an adventurous, exciting life inside his head - but he can't help but doubt, wonder, pick at some thoughts that shouldn't be picked at, secretly suspecting that whatever he believes, the cell is actually real, and the dragons actually aren't.
Prenumerera på:
Inlägg (Atom)