Delirium breeds creativity.
The drugs that the doctor gave me yesterday have me feeling like I’m from another planet, or high in a strange, lasting way. Smoke a joint, and three hours later you’re fine. Take five mysterious pills every day, and you feel like you’re flying, or floating, or someone else entirely.
Last night I laid in bed and watched the crazy thoughts roll by. Perhaps it’s all the writing I’ve been doing, but for a long time those strands of thought were nothing but word creations, absolute chaos that somehow made perfect sense. I wanted to write them down, but I couldn’t sit up. I thought they might be mildly amusing before the poor reader got a headache. They seemed profound and fractured all at once.
Talking to people is even strange. I find that I am filled with benevolence, and that I love conversation, but even as I’m talking or listening, I’m floating away. Who am I? What is this? Is the sun really shining? Am I actually walking down a street? I feel like I’m in a strange, prolonged dream.
I can’t wait to feel normal again.