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Fruit flies in the brain

Not all reality is expressed in the same way. I woke up angry, not that there was a real object, but because of a dream that flared up before I opened my eyes. Once the light was shining on my thoughts, I had no more reason to get excited. So goes the time in my brain, like a comet fraying its ice in the hope of attracting a sun.

I got up, walked to the bathroom, watched the cellophane I had applied to the water drain. For the past few days, fruit flies have been coming out of it, probably fed by some silt in the pipe, sediment accumulated by my regular tooth brushing, a mixture of saliva and paste, soap, and beard hairs, fertile ground for dewclaws to hatch.

Still muddled in my anger, the silent portrait of the plastic imprisoning the humidity brought me back to the dreams I love most, those that take shape when my body is awake, my lungs swollen, my heart regular and daily, my skin stuck to the film of the hours.

All-day long, I have listened to a fleeting (or floating?) music, Music for mushrooms: A Soundrack for the Psychedelic Pratictioner  as if I had to remain in a second or first dream state. Nothing stopped me from going about my day, talking to colleagues, meeting new ones, and fixing a bug here and there.

My life is full and empty at the same time. I live in a state of moribund ecstasy, having the sole taste for inventing celestial objects from plastic on a sink.

So many other things are going on in my head at the same time. So much and nothing.

I have to stick to this madness, to this poetry that I’ve been listening to since I was at the age of orgasm. Sometimes I tell myself that I would like to be able to share this intensity forever with someone walking beside me, probably a young man who plays sports and laughs because he’s going to overdo it just because he has the sudden urge to do so. I tell myself that this man is only my memory and my inner family. I am sad enough, or old enough, you can decide, to know that it is both wisdom and regret.

So many things in my head that speak for themselves, but still that many when you are silent and listening. So much material that disappears that it is not worth correcting really. Write it down and move on. Make a comet or a slag out of it, drink it, and burn yourself. Is there really any way to finish this text without destroying the magic of the moment?

There has to be. It’s getting late. I’m going back to the dreams that might make me angry.

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