There is no smooth, steady continuity of thought,
But the cacophony of different feedback loops
With one another.
The concept of ‘I’,
As a single, unified whole
Making all the decisions continuously,
Is an illusion
Created by our own subconscious minds.

Michio Kaku in The Future of the Mind


Cast A Way

The creaking cacophony of his sore neck was the sound of a sailor’s cabin. He stood as a sailor would, but he was on land not sea. The room swooned, he buckled once, then he made his way to the head.

This wasn’t his ship, I mean house, so he took an extra moment between utilizing his unfamiliar environment. Finding the light switch was as tediously executed as the sailor’s drunken attempt to light the lanterns below deck.

With his eyes closed, he was almost on the ship listening to the rain rapping a tattoo against the deck. But he had to open them to find the flusher and he found it was not the boat and sea that swayed, but his hangover.

Back to land, returned to himself, he flinched at the rising sun and the vast amount of windows. He missed the darkness of the Rien, his ship. There, hangovers were nursed away from the clattering of a crowded world.

Ah, but then there was the work.

The toiling and seething. The heaving and bracing. A hangover was always quickly sweated out in perfect preparation for the drunkenness of the next night. Always the next night.

When the all the water in the world is too salty to drink, there’s always the rum and brandy.

Maybe it was the salt in the water that built up around his heart.

Is he denying his emotions, or are they just slippery? He feels as the ocean might: deeper than the waves on its surface, no matter how rough they seem. This man, who doesn’t swallow his laugh nor shame himself out of tears, was empty.

It wasn’t loneliness, I don’t think. Was it envy, then, to how others might be? No… Perhaps it was an inexpressible. Ineffable, unobtainable. Is this why he felt closer to the ocean than to fellow people? The ocean didn’t have to negotiate who she was for him, nor he for her.

Sometimes he craved approval. This man and his ocean. Or was it the ocean and her man? He wished for somebody to catch his eye when he came ashore and he truly desired a smile. Not to give a smile, he was quick to give smiles, but to get one back.

Now, he was in a house that wasn’t his, in a world that wasn’t the sea, surrounded not by isolation but by half-asleep people. He twitched his mustache and sipped his coffee. He sang along to any song that he recognized (it was almost a game of hierarchical initiation, to know the song).

But he wasn’t unhappy.

These people around him, they were not unhappy. They were set up by themselves to avoid upset, but never would they let him know. He had to look past the jokes and the silly, almost irrelevant, conversation and see into the meaning behind those eyes.

Some of these people were suffering. Some of them couldn’t take themselves away from themselves and fell too deeply in love with their feelings. Happiness, to them, was something to grasp like one consoles a crying baby. Stay happy! Stay interesting! Stay normal!

He, of the ocean and of the ship named the Rien, didn’t quite buy all that. Happiness felt good, yes, but it was like trying to live in consistent orgasm to expect every day to be a happy one.

No, instead he remained empty, but he would rather call it “centered”. Like he was wrestling his emotions, he would always find the balance between grapples. When he woke up, he felt as if on a boardwalk: a good day to the right, a bad one to the left. And he would just sit there on the edge of his boardwalk, observing instead how the ocean laps against the stilts.

This was he.

A castaway.

The Emergence of Sleep

Oh, what a pain a migraine is. What a crippling effect it has. The world felt as though caught in the sun and electric shock. No position could my head have laid. No amount of darkness could have quenched my eyes. There was the aching of my body, which was a sweet nectar in my head compared to the pain of the migraine that brought me to this comatose state.

Of course, others have had worse. Don’t imagine I was in need of emergency help, but don’t imagine I am complaining either. This pain, the worse I have felt in a very long time (since I can remember actually) was, for me, the end of the world. No, it was worse than that. It was having the pain of death without the sweet orgasmic release of death itself. It was the knowledge that I was going to live, but the desire not to. It was the welcoming (beckoning even) of blissful unconsciousness.

And then I woke up. I had only been asleep for thirty minutes. And I felt no pain, no migraine.

Just a droplet of sleep was my cure.

What an amazing thing! What an emergence! What a surfacing from mine suffering. To go to sleep and wake up again.

If It’s Done With Love

Can I become debt free?

Financially, mentally, spiritually?

Or will I always have a debt? Is that what connects us? Is that was intertwines our fate?

If I lived selflessly, I would have to renounce my desires, my interests, and live a life of servitude. I would be debt free, because I would give and take nothing in return.

If I created the life I want to have, followed my heart, evolved my dreams, realized my potential, then I would be in a state of persistent debt, because I would be taking, taking, taking. Selfishly.

So which is the path?

If I believed in fatalism, I would say that I am already on the path of Selfishness. I want to become somebody. Change the world. I want, I want, I want. I have already been taking from a young age. I am already in debt.

But is there an inward door I need to open? A door of giving selflessly. Unconditional existing. Ego disintegration. Debtless living?

I don’t know!

Let’s call me, me. Let’s call the rest of the world (anything that exists outside the realm of my body) the other.

What is my relationship to the other?

Right now, it’s a sort of

“It’s your turn to give”

Towards the other.

If I gave all the time, I would have a relationship similar to any relationship I’ve ever fucking had. I don’t get anything back. I get taken advantage of. My heart is wrung and then left dry.

I am learning to accept life as it comes.

Giving is good, but so is accepting.

What good is giving, actually, when you can’t accept what’s given?

That’s what I need to focus on. Accepting in comparison to taking. Giving in comparison to spilling forth.

If it’s done with love, then it’s done well.


Everyone requires attention from you.

Take some time to be free from everyone. That is the only way to see who you are. Let, instead, the world get your attention. The Earth you walk on. The porch over your head, maybe. Look around you, and see beyond the limitations of conversation and interaction.

See what existence looks like.


Where is the love that I seem to have forgotten how to fall in to?


I cannot find it in a book or in music. It isn’t in these words or in my guitar. I’ve looked. Sometimes I find love in drawing, but it isn’t where I left it last. It’s gone!


Love, come back to me. You are all I need. And you, it seems, are all I can’t find.


I could use you in the shape of a woman, or in the material of a story. I could use you as the way sunlight plays with water, or the way a sentence plays with this page.


But I can’t find you.


Where is the love that keeps me from melting, spilling the essence of who I am now all along the floorboards? I woke up feeling an intense desire, which is the sudden absence of love. A craving for love. And sleep left me abandoned. Maybe that’s where love is: asleep. Maybe I am that love’s dream, though I, myself, am awake.


I step into the world of sleepy people, careful not to make sudden noises or have harsh contact. This sharp world with its light and sound, so unlike the soft edges of sleep. I eat, though there’s a hunger that goes deeper than my stomach.


I do what I resort to doing… I resort to doing what I would resort to doing if I found myself trapped, lost, in a dream. If I found myself in purgatory, or woke up in a coma, I’d resort to what I do now.


I write.


I’m all write.


There’s nothing left, but write.


Write on, I say, though my fingers bleed.


Love on, I whisper, though it feels fake.


That’s where love is. It is hiding there next to confidence. I see you two, crouched in the shadows of my mind. I see that you are just two children, hiding from the watchful eyes of an adult, playing your games of pretense until the game feels real and what’s real feels fake.