Proof that I'm at least partly insane

Words, words, words. It’s amazing how well they can describe something and yet be so insufficient at the same time. It’s amazing how they can be black or white or grey or just any damn colour they please depending on how you feel when you encounter them. It’s amazing how they can be grouped to show a new meaning that somehow you never considered before, but once you do see it, you’ll see it for the rest of your life.
Sometimes I wonder if people are words. I wonder, if you looked really closely at the various lines that make up everything we see, if you’d find that the lines are actually a million tiny words all linked together. If you had a people-magnifying glass and you looked at the tired eyes of that guy you just passed on the street, could you read his story? There are a million words dancing round in my head right now and all I want to do is go someplace crowded and busy and just let words spill out and attach themselves to unsuspecting passerby in hopes that maybe the words will be passed on. But my ideas are always stupid when it’s this late at night, and by the time I found the place I’ve been looking for, I have to hope that I will be lost for words. I have to hope that it will be so amazing that I’ll be perfectly content to just observe the days passing by without feeling the desperate cry of words that need to be released.
That, I think, is true heaven for a person like me. I may be deaf but I can hear the pleading of trapped words wherever I go. It’s only fair that they should be free, isn’t it? People get so heated and emotional about animals that are trapped and can’t get free from wherever they might find themselves, but no one cares about words. No one cares that there are ideas, sentiments, theories, hundreds of thousands of millions of simple, undiluted thoughts that spend eternity floating around waiting for someone to put them carefully in the right place.
I never have any idea what I’m about to say when I open a document. Never. But somehow my hands will start to tremble, my fingers will start flying over the black and white of this laptop keyboard like it’s the glorious grand piano I’ve always wanted to play, and the words come spilling out with no input from me. Sometimes it’s happy things, sometimes it’s sad, and other times it will be like this, full of weird character studies and vague talk of the magic of life.
Because it is magic, it really is, and the fact that some people can’t see that makes me so depressed. No one should die without being amazed at least twice by the utter magnificence that is our existence. I doubt anyone sees the world quite like me, but that’s probably a good thing - we’d spend our entire lives stopping dead on the middle of a busy sidewalk because we’re utterly transfixed by seeing something so completely mundane in a completely new way.
But there are some people who never see the sunrise, and there are other people who never look away. And the fact that those two types of people are somehow the exact same thing will never cease to amaze me. We are all so alike and yet I doubt there ever was another species that had anywhere near the same amount of diversity. It utterly boggles my mind, and when it’s so late it’s early, as it is now, I can sit here in silence except for the click of plastic keys and yet in my head there are infinite symphonies playing and I swear to whatever deity you care to name that I’ve never felt so alive.
I’ve got a cold, there’s a nasty bruise on my forehead, my throat is sore for reasons unknown, and my feet are killing me, but none of that matters, don’t you see? Look at how wonderful our world is! What the hell do I care about those idiotic complaints when there’s the whole universe out there, full of countless things that no one ever dared to imagine?
And people! Oh, the gloriousness of people! Each and every one is something perfectly unique, something brilliantly new. The only sad thing is that I can’t meet every person who ever lived, no matter how hard I try. And that’s the really brilliant thing, isn’t it? Learning about people. Listening to stories. Finding out all this information that maybe they wouldn’t even remember, but I always will. You get to see the little eccentricities that everyone has, the tiny quirks that make them truly and utterly them, and there’s nothing quite so beautiful as the smile of someone found.
There’s always something new, because you can’t learn a person in a single moment. There’s always something old, because memories are never perfect. And there is always, always something surprising, and those are the best bits - the ones you never saw coming.
People are novels, things that some can’t be bothered to deal with but others will happily spend a lifetime picking through every sentence, every word, every letter because they really are genuinely fascinated by how they mesh together to form a chaptered whole.
People are anthologies, collections of stories that are all by different people and yet they centre on something that is, at its core, an essentially timeless thing, despite how easily or how often it might be forgotten in the gradual erosion of the harsh sands of existence.
People are poems, a collection of noise and rhythm and sometimes-disjointed words, and yet if you ever saw someone written down it wouldn’t be quite the same because some poems are meant to be lived and heard and felt and humanity is one of them.
You know, I don’t even remember what I was talking about when I started to write. I don’t really have any input on what gets typed out - it’s never up to me and I never get sick of it.
Is that what it’s like for most people? Are there other people who can just sit down and let sentences and words and letters flow out like some sort of literary tsunami? Or is it just me? Because the further I get into this, the less I have any idea what I’m talking about. I’m sort of just watching in a kind of fascinated shock as I type this. Is that normal?
I wonder if other people can hear words screaming out at them like I do. Do others keep a list of their favourite words? Do others write simply because they think words deserve to be free? Are there other people who think words are as gorgeous and brilliant and utterly fascinating as I do?
Listen - do you hear that? It’s the sound of people hitting the back button. Yes, I’m a lunatic. I never said I wasn’t. But as I once heard it put, being completely bonkers is like being mad, but much more fun.
So try it out. See if you can hear them. Because if you ask me, there’s nothing quite so beautiful as the music made by words.
Good night.

I've been up for over twenty four hours.

You ever had one of those days that was just destined to go wrong?
I haven't been this nauseous in five years. My headache has gotten so bad that I nearly passed out in public.
Oh, joy.
Anyway, have decided to post something I wrote a while back. Said thing will appear in the next five minutes or so.

Nightmares R Us

Well!
My first blog post. This is truly a momentous occasion.
I feel like I should be performing a sort of celebratory dance or something. Perhaps a polka. But then again, I don't actually know how to polka. Right. That's not going to work, then.
This isn't going very well, is it?
I'm sorry, I'm a bit loopy at the moment. I've been up since a little before two in the morning because I was afraid to go back to sleep after the most recent nightmare.
Have you ever had one of those nightmares that's just terrifyingly, incandescently real? It's like you stub your toe in the dream and it hurts even when you're awake. Usually there's that little niggling thing that tells you that it isn't real, that you will wake up eventually, but my dreams have gotten so intense that until I see that one little thing, I honestly believe that it's real.
Take the nightmare I woke up from this morning. It basically consisted of me being hunted down and killed by people I consider to be close friends. As has been happening more and more often recently, I could see the murder weapon (in this case a pure white knife about twelve inches long altogether) being drenched in my blood before the actual wound occurred. In the dream, it feels like things just sort of freeze when I stare at it, and then there's a red spot that grows and grows and grows until there's red everywhere, coating the person's hand, dripping on the floor with a sickeningly fluid sound, making everything slick and disgusting. I always snap out of it just in time to see the business end fire or stab or whatever that night's instrument of murder is attack.
Sometimes it hurts. Sometimes it doesn't. There are times when I'm just vaguely aware of chilled metal entering my body. There are other times when I could swear every nerve in my dream body is twice as sensitive and I wake up crying so hard I have red eyes for the rest of the day.
And even though I do eventually wake up, it's so real that unless I find that thing that's just wrong, I'm honest to goodness convinced that I am about to die.
It's always something easily overlookable. Last night it was the colour of my Converse. Once it was the page I had bookmarked in Macbeth. The side of my deodorant facing the room. The order of the books on my desk. The year on the coin I have a habit of fiddling with. In the most subtle case, the brown spot in one of my eyes was reversed so it was on the other side of the pupil. That one was beyond scary - I kept looking and looking for something to prove that it wasn't real, and I couldn't find anything until I was thrown through a mirror and I got a very up-close and personal view of my face before smashing through it.
Yeah. Sleeping hasn't been happening much lately.
And I'm used to it, I honestly am - a whole life full of nightmares does that to you - but it's been particularly bad recently and my headaches are getting worse as well.
I'm so exhausted, and my head hurts, and yet I'm absolutely terrified to sleep and the only way to get rid of one of my migraines is to sleep it off, helpfully enough.
Yes, well.
Great inaugural post, huh?
Have a nice day.