Ours goes to infinity

My tooth hurts. It's the one I had a root canal on - how can that one hurt? But it does, though my stomach's doing better.

Spent most of the night drenched in sweat. Dreams of the Cold War, nuclear war, trying to end my life peacefully, the end of the world, omnipotence, running from things, creating the ultimate art (achievement) and having it lost, falling in love and having it denied. It stretched on for weeks as my mind dilated time to fit its own agenda, but when I woke up and barely six hours had passed, I rose from bed not rested and ready for the day, but psychically aged and covered with the crumbs of a mind's unraveling.

Funny how reluctance to write creeps in. I suppose it's because of the overwhelming nature (and volume) of what's to be said. I can only capture a tiny fraction here of all that has passed this night, but perhaps it will make me less anxious to have done so. Before I take the pills that will line my brain chemistry up in just such a way, before I retreat to that narrow condition of 'normality' that exists like an imprinted wafer in the turbulent three-dimensionality of existence/madness, I will try to write what I can. But it feels thirdhand now, passed from experience to a waking cache mind to a person distanced from the dreamstate.

Does God get sad and bored? What is the nature of omnipotence? Can he create constant renewal, constant happiness, constant discovery, constant purpose all around him - even in his own mind? Can omnipotence nullify itself too, take omnipotence away, or does it lie outside its range of effects in some metaplane? This is important. Can God (we) exist in an ecstatic state all the time and never readjust? Can he fly around, make people do what he wants them to, wave his hand, dive into refreshing water, do naughty things, find subtle peace...and not get sick of it all, not get burnt out and feel it's all hollow? Like playing a game on invincible mode, does it get old really quick, become just another mystery-free mechanical system, or can he control that too? Does he get lonely with all this power, can he create other equal minds that satisfy his need for companionship, or is that impossible in an act of subcreation? Would he have to create other omnipotences, and is that possible? Does the fact that he can do so at will invalidate the comfort they bring? Can he will himself to die?

Nature seems to show us what we want to see, this malleable dreamscape that exists around us like some kind of embryonic membrane. It's all just a dream. They talk about the nature of matter at the lowest levels being some kind of duality of particle and wave; I believe it's much more than a duality, it's an infinite array of possibilities, it's anything you want it to be, it metamorphosizes freely based on your expectations, your desires. Everything is like that. Reality is tiny, we don't go anywhere. We don't even move.

We sit in our egg. The cosmic egg. Funny it's the symbol of the big bang, the start of the universe. The start and end of all we know. It's no different than our own birth and death, curled fetal position inside our own egg, self-contained, finite but boundless. We can't crack out because there's nowhere to go. There is no outside. And we can't crack up because there's nowhere else in our minds to go either, and Mind must be present. We can freak out, run from point A to point Z, but at any given instant we have to be at some letter of the mental alphabet, some discrete state. There is no escape, no release.

I don't even think it's WE, it's me, or it's you, whatever you want to call it. We're all one, all different facets of the same being. Even that which we call the outside, the nonliving, is a part of us. It's a dream in our heads. We are alone - I am alone. It's all here, an infinite regression of dream-realities inside my head inside my dreams inside my soul. Physicality is an illusion that can never be disproved but is wrong nevertheless.

Everything scales infinitely both ways, readjusts to norms constantly. There's no use in trying to get happier, more powerful, to be ecstatic, to be omnipotent, because you end up right back where you were. There's an infinite sky of possibilities above you, an infinite hell of limitations below. Net result is the same. Look at career promotions, material acquisitions, carnal pleasures. They give you the first indication that this is the way it is. No net gain. No movement.

And here it all comes spilling out. Funny what happens when you just miss a day (it used to be two or three) of your antidepressants. Those go-go-go, don't question anything, keep your eyes on the road ahead and don't look sideways, you might see something you don't understand or, worse, something you do. You may start to wonder where you're going in the first place. Eventually you'll realize the car's not actually moving, it's just scenery parading around, sounds of black-clothed children in the background and a heavy velvet curtain waiting to ascend. And for god sakes, don't look behind you.

It's just a thin veneer over this overwhelming, de-ranged reality, which comes right back when you stop taking the pink pill, the blue pill, the red pill, and it's progressed in the meantime, like a disease, like the disease of truth. A pickled brain in a jar thinking thoughts, wondering why it's hard to run in its dreams. A shadow on a wall. Pride of craftsmanship, dissolving cruelly, going up in smoke with the rising of the sun, so you do it again, for real this time, and another sun rises. Pride of something that never happened at all. Hell's just a few inches a way at all times, in a direction we can't normally go. When the brain chemistry is right, sails are up, and all bets are off. My teeth hurt. They feel like they're falling out.

When you're dreaming and you're asleep, everything makes sense, you make such profound revelations, clear the webs away and see things as they are, you're at the height of your powers, you have so many things you want to say so eloquently, an understanding so complete, a richness so deep you could fill novels. When you wake up, though you clutch frantically, it all wafts away like a breeze; and in the shadow of dimly but profoundly remembered greatness, you're supposed to get up, take a shower, and carry on with trivial, animal specifics.

I can't create anymore. Things fall to pieces. My heart is pounding in my chest and it feels like I am going to die. This is the least of my concerns, for I'm more worried about what it will be like if I live, how I can go on with what I've seen, the logical conclusions I've come to. You can fancy it up with words any way you like, a hole is still a hole. Are we all just mindless sex-crazed depressives going out of our heads trying to find some meaning to what seems like a hollow search for pleasures and peace, who can only stumble on without exploding if we're under the sedating effects of a medication that makes us forget our nature? Yet I want that sedation back. I don't want to think anymore, not about this. I can't.