Stream of Consciousness III 19-02-2012

I'm in a rare frame of mind at the moment. Cannot sleep, little hunger for the past thirty-six hours or so, rolling around on the floor listening to a few songs in a random rotation on repeat (alliteration, though unintentional). Those are all physical ailments though, and I think that I immediately jumped from a preface about the mental to a description of the physical because at the moment I'd like to avoid anything in abstract terms. The more concrete and real the landscape that I frame myself within, the... more concrete and real it is, I suppose. I could have said better, but that's not necessarily true. Could have said worse. Same. I guess what I'm saying is that I'm not saying anything right now. Not capable. Don't know.

I stared at those last two sentences for at least four or five minutes before I realized that I was in fact capable insofar as I was capable of thinking. Hence this consciousness stream.

I'm no philosopher. Lover of knowledge? In the vaguest of senses, right now at least. Catch me in a more typical moment and it's definitive. Catch me in a rare moment such as this and you might as well pull out the triple beam to compare ignorance and bliss because it's going to be a pretty close call. You can know and you can believe that you know, but if it's impossible to know anything external to the mind with actual certainty, then there ceases to be a difference. But this doesn't downgrade actual knowledge, it upgrades internal belief in the knowledge. It becomes knowledge. But then the question becomes: to what degree of certainty can you know something internal? About one's self? Don't know. Not capable of knowing, I guess. Observational bias.

And I am not really sure as to what degree anything that I just said is something that I would actually avow in a more typical frame of mind. But this is rare so let's run with it. But then again I'm already off of it; my mind has moved elsewhere. Back to where it has been for the hungerless thirty-six. Sadness is the absence of happiness? That I do believe. But it's hardly a consolation. Remember: we left the abstract a few songs ago to play around on the asphalt. How's it going so far, author? Mental check returned: inconclusive.

The weather was nice out, so why weren't my blinds open? Hadn't stepped outside yet. Didn't know. But yes, it was nice when I stepped out. Came back in, opened a window's worth. It had already gotten cold, though. Was it too late? Inconclusive. Don't know.

I peer out the window every time I hear a car drive past. Twenty-two years next to an interstate made me deaf to the constant sonic blur. Couldn't hear it anymore; it became white noise. Static craziness, to me. Always could ignore the crazy: practice makes experienced. But a few hours and suddenly two decades of conditioning had fallen straight out of my head. Now each doppler effect is a new skip of the pulse.

So I was in bed and I heard what sounded like a tap on glass. Without hesitation, without thought, I immediately assumed. Rock met window? Must be so. Literally jumped out of bed and literally ran to my balcony. Literally nothing, insofar as I can detect the absence of something. That'd be handy right now, no? But I know that every single time I lead myself into thinking I heard that much-desired sound, I'm really just leading myself into hearing my own thoughts reverberate around my skull. Strange.

It was almost insulting that my car picked that moment to break a leg. Six years of questionable care and this is the night that you want to pop off? Fair? Don't know. What does fair mean any way? (Leaving the concrete. Returning to the abstract.) Fairness goes right back to expectations: I expect a certain level of balance in the exchange. When reality meets my expectations, within a certain delta, I deem it fair. But that's subjective, right? My car must have thought, "Six years I've been waiting for a slip-up. Let me rub it in. You've had it too nice, kid." Sorry I didn't have the struggles that I was supposed to. Didn't know.

I'm the inner purple, it's been said. I made a joke because I didn't get it. But I appreciated it so much. Needed it. I suppose that I wasn't running on all cylinders. I could guess that I'm not right now, either. Or I could guess that they're misfiring. Or that they've been re-calibrated. Wanted to be rare? Don't know. Guess it's a little secret. Should park the car to give myself a moment for some faunal arithmetic. Wanted to be the destroyer? Never. Still don't. That I know.

All of this doubt leads me back to being sure? Am I absolutely sure of that? Mental check gave me an answer this time.

The sky over Oakton is almost purple. That's roughly the direction I'd like to walk right now. Open the door that I know is unlocked, climb the stairs that I know aren't too creaky and fall in the bed that I know is warm: hers.