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.