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What's on YOUR mind?

It’s a picture, one which, although I’ve seen it a thousand times in my head, has a significance that still eludes me.  An itch tingles on my forehead, it is soft at first notice and although I ignore it in hopes that it will give up and disappear, it persists; I move my hand to scrape it.  The feeling subsides. 

Bloodshot in the eyes, I imagine that it must be near two or three in the morning but that doesn’t matter to me.  I have things to do, thoughts to make real, plans to lay out, words dancing across my mind that only need the scratches of a pen to become so much more, to become real, for anyone who has ever thought knows that the difference between what is real and what is unreal, what is known and what is unknown, is expression.

 The tired aroma of stale coffee looms between pale, ivory walls.  Much is quiet in physicality; in the realm of the unexplained much noise is maintained.  The flat-line dial tone of a worn out fax machine hums steadily in a corner, a noise which, when I think about it, all but disappears from my detection on the premise of familiarity.  I think too much about irrelevant, unimportant things, but this thinking reminds me of the intriguing phenomenon that is thought, itself.

 An ambitious writer adventures into his own intuition every time he disconnects.  Overhead a bare bulb dangles from a dusty string, its pendulum swing the only predictable, stable movement to be seen.  Its static energy is, to visitors, unnerving, but to the writer, motivating.  What keeps it moving isn’t apparent to someone who has never seen it before, but once used to it, the writer knows that this light bulb is his own creation and that it swings even while inanimate; it swings because the writer thinks it is swinging.  The writer, after all, has disconnected.

 Why sleep when not exhausted?  Why give up all that has been obtained during conscious, wakeful hours to sleep?  Sleep is the cousin of death, and with this the writer most certainly agrees.  This is why, for all the time he stirs, the writer is in constant search for explanation of the phenomena going on in his head.  But the problem he inevitably encounters is a connection to the demented, linear ways of thinking that block the true explanation of his thoughts.

The bulb continues to swing, and in this the writer delights because he knows he has disconnected.  It’s a strange world, the Disconnect.  Not many can admit to having experienced it, and even so, those who have become disconnected often choose not to elaborate for fear of being deemed loony.  But an ambitious writer is also a fearless writer, so allow me to explain. 

My name is Gerard and I have a notebook that I never open.  The notebook is really a profoundly large stack of papers neatly woven with string to bind it together on its edges.  Regardless of its appearance, the book is filled with words, thoughts, pictures, conspiracies, explanations – everything you would expect to find in a notebook.  It’s safely guarded under the protection of a lock and a key (the key is also protected in a box that is, like the notebook, guarded by lock and key, itself) and I’ve never opened the lock.

 You might ask yourself how it is possible that I know the contents of my notebook if I’ve never opened it before, and I suppose I don’t know.  But do you ever get that feeling that something exists, even if you can’t remember seeing it?  The cynic would criticize my story saying how do you know there is a key to the notebook’s lock if this key is hidden behind its own lock and key?  I just know. 

If you are not ready to believe, don’t read any further.  In my experience I know it is impossible to please someone who doesn’t want to be pleased.  But if you’re on the fence and are ready to be taken away, swept off your feet, as one observer described his experience, I urge you to stick with me.  The reason so few are able to disconnect is because so few believe.  Believe.


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