200th Post, and it's a good one.

I feel so free.

1. will not be able to explain this. I think maybe my blood has changed color. I look out the window and I see magenta glowing from purple clouds, I see thunder and hear lightning and I know that these are the substance that flows in my veins.

It is too dark to read the book that has set me free, but not too dark to edit the poems on my box of light.

Black Swan Green thank you. This was so precisely what I needed. I guess I am a 13 year old stammering, British, teenage boy. I guess that is the level of emotional maturity and determinism my life has achieved.

BUT THAT IS FINE. Oh I am so relieved to find this book (again, I read it a long time ago) and I am crying at it's perfection. Not crying like I was before, but crying like a bird because unformed noises are the only way to fully commune with it.

I am free.

It's strange: the lamp that I turned on to read this book is bringing back the HPPD from MDA. It's the same as the lamp in E's room, in terms of color. Why I didn't use it all the time is one of the things that ought to cause the stabbing guilt about this summer, but doesn't. The things that do are almost forgotten. The knife is dull.

Even though the fan makes it stutter, it's still better than the fluorescent light.

At the beginning of the summer, looking at the sky broke my heart. It would immediately be grainy and distill its one perfect hue into a bunch of oscillating dots that would fade in and out of approximations. I knew that if my mind could just average the points, I would see the sky. And as I looked up, each time, there would be a blink before the dots came out. In that microsecond I would see the blue. The perfect blue, and then it would leave me.

And I thought I was punished for my rashness. I thought what I should tell my brother, or anyone, who wants to try drugs. How much do you value the sky? It scared me more than the idea of schizophrenia ever did, to think that I'd never see a clear sky. The dots were less aggressive when it was thoroughly cloudy. It was the blank slate that let them in.

But that faded. Thank... Thank life that faded. I can see the sky again. If I'm tired, overcaffinated, crying too much, or what-have-you, the sky is taken from my but when I'm in good form, it's mine.

And tonight in the dark, the trails are back. No messy dots, just graceful trails following my hand. Nothing compared to the dots. Indeed, just an added charm to the incandescent light.

Incandescent means more now, with these two experiences building its power.

David Mitchell, I love you.

Back in the states in a matter of hours. I mean, a matter of a hundred or so hours but they are hours and they are small compared to me.

\MY CENTER OF POWER/

is there. Is here. I felt it in Paris too. It tastes like invention and smells like choice. It invades my saliva and through it twists my tongue and shapes my lips.

Sometimes it says I OWN YOU and I'm afraid of it

Sometimes it says I AM WEAK and I forget myself

Sometimes it hits my heart like adrenaline and drives the beat by itself and I feel like I'm flying. Sometimes everything else is ripped off, in the moments when I know that I am dying, and I am alone with it and the Harmony we create is electrifying, and real, and PERFECT. That word that is so empty to me, but here it finds its substance.

The truth is that I am made for myself.

Maybe this light brings back more than visuals and I am back in that heaven of MDA. Not quite the same. I knew amphetemines would be heaven. I knew that to have my brain be working more intensely and creatively was all I ever wanted. And that's why I put off trying them.

Well, I didn't get addicted but this feeling is familiar because I felt it then. I know I can get this feeling, any feeling, without drugs but to be able to call it up is... good. It leaves me free to send that energy elsewhere. Drugs are a shortcut.

LI<3RE is my favorite form of the pun so far. I think it's too ironic to get tattooed but it's amazing and I love it.

I fixed some poems. They're still a work in progress. Here is my favorite so far. Still a work in progress.

SOMNCALCULIST

Outside already understood

Flood of truth and loops of cool

But jaggedmixedandfickle dreams

                  Separate furtherthanspace                apartfromtime

Every side of this is mine

How can I sleep nestedinart

And allnight take the world apart

blarg art makes art is what I learned at the Pompidou and however mundane that is it is so true. I think it's because religion and earth have both lost their art to us. How sad. How known.

My world is small but I know that it is only one of many and so it grows. What-There-Is is big.

So. That works out.

I am made for myself.

But I think I can play with others too.

I'm so happy that I don't want to stop writing.

WHAT DOES THIS MEAN. Hello Internet journal, I guess I'm back. It probably didn't feel long to you, but we had been so close so the week or two I was away felt like a long time.

Bitches. ← too much Yeezus in my ears but how can I stop because it's amazing.