I see spots.

In every waking moment, I hallucinate a million little spots. A million little dots that spoil my eyes. A million little spasms of oblique blackness, like untextured static, flickering in and out of existence without a care in the world. Spawns of the million little holes inside of my head caved out by sickness, injury and anxiety — all leaks that pollute my speckled fantasy world. A world where the contours of reality are increasingly reshaped beyond belief. Where the edges of surfaces, and things, and people, and ideas shake with factual indetermination — vibrating at the frequency of my own incessantly failing nature.

In every waking moment, The world dithers with these inconsistent surges of delusion. With every blink I change channels in hopes of finding something clearer — 

I’m in the eye of the storm

drowning beneath the weightofmyownoversaturation

Drowningbeneaththeweightof

..;’;;’;; .; ;.;.’;’.;’..;’.’;.;;````;.;.’;’.;’..;’.’;.;;````,;.;.’` ‘```;;;.;.’;’.

`` ‘```;;`;;’’’.’;`’`;`.`,`;`’`.`;’;;;’’;;’’’. ‘```;;;.;.’;’.;’..;’.’;.;;`.;’.’;.;;````;.;.

;.;.’;’.;’..;’.’;.;;```’;;;’’;;’’;’;;;’’;;’’’’.,.’.;’.,,;...;’.spots.    .;’.’;````,`;`’`.`,;.;.’`;;;`;`,`;`’

;.;.’;’.;’..;’.’;.;; ;`;;’’`;’;;;’’’’’.;.’;’.;’..;’.’;.;;```` ‘```;;;````,`;`’`.`,;.;.’`;;;`;;’

’.;’.,,;..’..;’.’;.;;``;‘```;;`;;’’``’`.`;’;;;’’;;’’’.;’..`,;.;.’` ‘```;;;.;.’;’.’ .,,;..’..;’.’;.;;```` 

;.;.’;’.; ;`;;’’`;’;;;’’;;’’’’.`;;’’`;’;;;’’;;’’’’., `;`,;.’;’.;’..;’..;.’`;.;;```` ‘```;;`;;’’`

;.;.’;’.;’..;’.’;.;;````;.;.’;’.;’..;’.’;.;;````;.;.’;’.;’..;’.’;.;;````;.;.’;’.;’..;’.’;.;;````;.;.’;’.;’..;’.’;.;;silence is verboten ’;’.;’..;’.’;.;;````;.;.’There is no stillness anymore.; .;.’;’.;’..;’.’; ;’;;;’’.:’;;.,.,’;’.;’..;’.’;.;;````;.;.’;’.;’..;’No quiet,`;.;.not from the spots.’.. ;’.’ ;.;;``` `;.;.’;’.; I cannot even close my eyes’.’;.;;````;.to hide`;.;.’;’.;’..;from them. Like optic suffixes;.’’’’.`;;’’`spots append themselves to the back of my eyelids;.’;’–;’..;’.’;. wholly insistent upon a world only unto themselves.;’’;’.`there is no silence to be found anywhere. Partiality accentuates the reality they deny me: blank walls, clear skies, and quiet thoughts have all become static nightmares that I am forbidden to awake from until my death. 

Spots signify a pure kind of repulsive nothing [       ]. Possessing a type of purity that cannot be subsumed by any desire. Invincible artefacts of my cognitive collapse, inviolable holes in reality, failures of imagination and memory — reminders that these structures can rot and collapse like any great empire while spots… persist

I think I’m thinking myself to death. Like a sky that will always fall on your head, the spots latch onto any unattended thought or dream — casting their antumbral shade over my psyche, a fly-screen blindfold from the world of meaning — “I’m about to go nuts”. 

Unfortunately, the mind is not a unitary thing. To discern spots is to force my gaze into this conceived dysfunction of the mind. Which, under a certain kind of obsession, under a certain kind of selfishness, causes the fractured, spotty world to slip away quietly, and be replaced by a belief in a fractured m;.,’i;’;.,nd. 

When something becomes fractured, distance becomes its most salient quality; a sensory detachment measured by the leaps and bounds of imagination required to recover its original form. Where the faraway dream of what’s been left behind can become even more compelling than the fantasy of what’s actually there. It is this distance that I measure in the dark seams that striate my eyes — the distance that dissimulates my senses – this distance from me, to myself, and I.

In this state, the mind becomes increasingly confused and disorientated by a suffocating awareness of its own impulses — breath, heartbeat, touch, light, balance, pain, shock, orgasm, heat, cold, hearing, thought, smell and taste become the unconscious cogs that trammel up my conscious self. To remain removed from the world that I dwell in is to languish in the perceived arbitrariness of its construction. To become arbitrary myself. 

I’m convinced we didn’t exist before spots, I think that we used to just be. When we craved ourselves into existence, the spaces for spots grew too — the places we must have missed. At some point then — there must’ve been one — I must’ve been a spot too, unconceived, fragmented, yet invincible. So, when spots project themselves into my vision from a failing place inside, it seems that I’m really seeing myself. In every waking moment, I think, a million little spots hallucinate that they are me.