Today I sat waiting for a friend to arrive for a meal together. In this time I looked down the street and saw the green-gold leaves of trees lush with summer. The visual was so striking, the colours so particular, it called me to a place I had not been in years. The Sungold Villa. The resonance called forth associations I did not know, the image imprinting and recalling all the same. Creating a memory to feed that place in my mind that I did not realise, until then, was processing for me.
Upon this revelation percolating up into my mind a cascade of associations followed. For if my mind had been tacitly sorting these experiences, nestling them in the leaves of the grand oak. What other pieces have been sorted unconsciously?
So I looked around. The street sign was weak, connected to the City of Rain, the City of Labyrinth Streets, the City by the Sea, and the Precarious Mountains. The road the same, so often that it became little more than a passage for the flow of other things. A liminal experience of sight.
Then my eyes fell upon the railing, a sensation tugged. A bolt rusted, twisted, and draped with cobwebs called it to me. The Time Twisted Hospital. This was a piece of my mind that had committed a sin of man, the transmutation of a thing from what it was into a symbol of what I was.
What a world I had built.
I see fragments coalescing again, my experiences gathered from the weight of the years since I had built this cauldron of experience to process my life. There is a monastery I saw, it is embedded in my memories of Oxford. Tall walls, winding stone streets, walled gardens, strange passages. They fold together to deal with the new processes that cannot fit in that world I made from the eyes of one looking up from the dark. I could not see those walls when all I had was the stars, the moon, the sun, and the dank.
So now I feel such a drive. An urge to name. To trace the route of my experience through the landscape built in my mind.
Simultaneously this reignites that urge to find the path back to them. Perhaps it is a weakness of my present existence that I am reduced to merely transcribing instead of gaining access back. Perhaps it is a blessing that I am not dragged through the streets until my flesh is rubbed raw. Perhaps I am merely busy attempting to build new landscapes. How do I support it?
Melatonin comes to mind, good sleep hygiene, and apple juice. The ideas I fede myself feed my dreams, perhaps I am not reading enough. The reinvigoration of the construction of my paracosm is sourced from my processing of thoughts through the realm of text. Is the generation merely a way to pin down the existence, but it is the consumptive that provides the fertiliser needed to grow myself.