mischievously mental

Do you know this feeling of being in bed right before falling asleep and you are thinking of the most horrible thing that could happen to you? It’s a way of distracting yourself from an unpleasant sensation resting heavily on your chest. The cracks in the ceiling prop up your imagination and help it to defy the white numbness of a silent, speechless night. I relish these moments of floating ideas without any consequences, when I can simply follow the curves and convolutions of my thoughts without the pressure of having to transform them into anything usable or concrete or useful or… Somehow in this fascination for this world of ethereal ideas lies my biggest fear. To be diving in air literally trying to grab an idea here and there with, in the back of my mind, the reassurance that I will return to my mental nest with my new bountiful collection. Deep inside I know what the bitter realization is. There is no returning anywhere with anything. I should just accept that I can only toy with a bunch of alluring thoughts for a while and then be thrown back to where I am with nothing. Oh, I am probably not making any sense. Well, what I meant is that there is a certain fascination with mentally observing one’s life take certain shapes, which then disintegrate into smaller parts and later again aggregate into different forms. All in a very random, chaotic fashion. The pit I always fall into, however, is believing that all those mischievous exercises of the mind might actually become real. I am terrified by the thought that the next day I would wake up into another dull day, that the cracks in my ceiling are not the making of a genie hovering above my bed. They are just the consequence of an intricate physical phenomenon, aren’t they? © El Matador