a voice inside a dream
Wednesday, January 29th, 2014 09:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
erikaLast night, when the alarm on my phone went off, I must have picked my phone up and somehow managed to type: "Yeah. I'm hoping for the summer love..."
That about sums up my life right now. Waiting for the love of summer, for this desperate grief to lift—I mourn my own incapacity, and my selfishness. Depression and fatigue cloud my mind to the point where I can't communicate the way other people expect me to, leading to entries like the last one.
The way I wrote that entry is the way I thought when I was a child and still do—it's like a different language—very synesthetic, concepts bleeding into other concepts but everything separated by its innate feel, the way it feels to me.
Every occurrence, every fact, every noun unique but flavored with the ones that led up to it, much like the dishes in a perfect meal—it can never be replicated, even if you make the same dishes, but having the food there while you're hungry means that the taste isn't the most important thing—experiencing it is.
I generally confuse people when I talk about my thought processes. Most people are so visual, you see, and I could never organize things well by sight, nor is that ever the key to remembering the massive quantities of information in my memory. It's not really a taste, but that's the way my metaphor is for the moment—if someone mentions England, for example, that's a meal comprised of the experiences that I had there and the things I know about the country from its citizens and the rest of the world, its writings and its history: anything flavored similarly then gets dragged out onto the kitchen counter of my mind,
I experience things through metaphors and similies, as though these analogies are the only way I can bear the feeling of a world that's so harsh on all of my senses.
That about sums up my life right now. Waiting for the love of summer, for this desperate grief to lift—I mourn my own incapacity, and my selfishness. Depression and fatigue cloud my mind to the point where I can't communicate the way other people expect me to, leading to entries like the last one.
The way I wrote that entry is the way I thought when I was a child and still do—it's like a different language—very synesthetic, concepts bleeding into other concepts but everything separated by its innate feel, the way it feels to me.
Every occurrence, every fact, every noun unique but flavored with the ones that led up to it, much like the dishes in a perfect meal—it can never be replicated, even if you make the same dishes, but having the food there while you're hungry means that the taste isn't the most important thing—experiencing it is.
I generally confuse people when I talk about my thought processes. Most people are so visual, you see, and I could never organize things well by sight, nor is that ever the key to remembering the massive quantities of information in my memory. It's not really a taste, but that's the way my metaphor is for the moment—if someone mentions England, for example, that's a meal comprised of the experiences that I had there and the things I know about the country from its citizens and the rest of the world, its writings and its history: anything flavored similarly then gets dragged out onto the kitchen counter of my mind,
I experience things through metaphors and similies, as though these analogies are the only way I can bear the feeling of a world that's so harsh on all of my senses.
no subject
on Friday, January 31st, 2014 03:30 pm (UTC)