Tuesday, March 10th, 2009.

I know this sounds crazy, but I'm beginning to think I can make things happen simply by thinking about them. Things as trivial as making certain people call me or text me exactly when I want them to; things as cosmic as thinking about people from my past and then seeing them within the next few days - people I haven't seen in years. What if everything that is around me, everything that is my Space, is dictated by my thoughts? And what if merely believing this is enough to control it? Kind of like self-fulfilling prophecies. My knee was hurt a few days ago; I was even on crutches. And I just thought about it. Really, I just sat on my couch and thought about my knee and I decided to myself that I didn't want it to be bothering me anymore. I made up my mind right then and there that my knee injury was bullshit; that the pain in my knee was a part of this material world and it could be easily transcended. And it worked. It absolutely worked. How is that possible? Was I just being a hypochondriac before? Hardly, my knee was swollen something fierce. But by the next day I was running up and down the stairs and zipping around as if it hadn't bothered me at all. Of course no one is going to believe me when they read this, but after I followed the rabbit down the hole that one fateful evening some of you may recall, I came to understand what pain really is. Moreover what my body really is. And it's fake. It's all totally fake. Granted, it was perhaps a little crazy of me to request that someone stab me in the heart to prove my point, but since that night I haven't encountered any problem concerning the body that I haven't surmounted easily using this knowledge. Simply by understanding that pain is merely a faculty of the body and the body is merely an object of the material world and our brains our imprisoned within that object, but our minds can escape, can transcend. I know this sounds like hippie bullshit, but it's not. I don't know what else to say. It's simply not.

Take LSD, try it. You'll understand what I mean.

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In my dreams I am nothing

Bare existence, no longer anchored
To this futile search for a meaningful conclusion
No longer burdened by these biological restrictions

Free to just revel in my insignificance

In my life I am broken
Mass produced with contradicting parts
My senses disavow all logical reductions
Concerned only with avaricious reproduction

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Passage of the day.
From The Doors of Perception by Aldous Huxley

The schizophrenic is a soul not merely unregenerate, but desperately sick into the bargain. His sickness consists in the inability to take refuge from inner and outer reality (as the sane person habitually does) in the homemade universe of common sense - the strictly human world of useful notions, shared symbols and socially acceptable conventions. The schizophrenic is like a man permanently under the influence of mescalin, and therefore unable to shut off the experience of a reality which he is not holy enough to live with, which he cannot explain away because it is the most stubborn of primary facts, and which, because it never permits him to look at the world with merely human eyes, scares him into interpreting its unremitting strangeness, its burning intensity of significance, as the manifestations of human or even cosmic malevolence, calling for the most desperate countermeasures, from murderous violence at one end of the scale to catatonia, or psychological suicide, at the other. And once embarked upon the downward, the infernal road, one would never be able to stop. That, now, was only too obvious.

"If you started in the wrong way," I said in answer to the investigator's questions, "everything that happened would be a proof of the conspiracy against you. It would all be self-validating. You couldn't draw a breath without knowing it was part of the plot."