The Madness of the Individual

Oh, it comes and goes. When it comes, grab it and focus, but don't focus too much 'cause you'll lose the present. But you still have to focus, filter, all that jazz. And when it goes, so it goes. Sometimes you'll be sad. There is a strange relief with sadness: you know, that feeling you get when you remember that when you die you'll lose one less thing. The peculiar thing that it is.

We have to shift the focus a bit so you'll see with the heart instead of the brain.

I don't really know what it is I'm talking about. Is it? These mediocre semblances and combinations of faint conceptual manifestations of things I may or may not have encountered in whatever it is I think and touch. What if it is some kind of affair. Some kind of hard to distinguish gesture that she made with her lips and her eyes. She invited you in and there was a certain passion written on the wall. But what happened? What happens to love when it sobers up? Oh there is too little time for this kind of introspection, look at the world. And so:

What is a beautiful thing! Reach out to the universe and say "hello, there is a space somewhere between that axon and this dendrite yet to be touched by your grace." Just some chemical thing, electrical magic and all that. Dance around and shake off the mist of the familiar, let the Neoplatonic torrent pour down.

There's a precise way to put all this, but what's the fun in that?