My mind is peeled away in orange rind layers. I reach with static fingers to try and lock in back into it's bracing. But it's slippery; slightly greasy like caseless ammunition, and twice and vicious. The problem is self-perpetuating-- I can't use my mind to rein in my mind. 'Concentration' is a word that my mouth can shape, but isn't applicable to my consciousness. I drift further and further away from waking lucidity: all the while fighting with the strength of an infant against an unshatterable grip. Dragged bodily by my brain.
I know the place that I am headed, and I hate it. It's the same horizon I see people shambling toward, every day. The sweet, empty cocoon of waking mindlessness, where most husks yearn to end their day. Free of the responsibility of enlightenment, improvement or epiphany.
I cannot reach spiral plateaus like this. It's a dream within a nightmare within a lullaby. An Escher painting of watching myself tell myself that I know I'm losing focus. And I am powerless to stop myself without disengaging.
Perhaps this is why I am not destined for greatness.
11:21 p.m. - 2014-11-26
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