Surrealist gesture

In my sleep I wrote a small novel, chapter by chapter with a great ferocity. The words and story were very specific, very complex, yet the work flowed effortless from my pen. I would stir into consciousness every now and again, still holding the ideas fresh in my mind, but I could not will myself to leave the confines of bed and record the ideas, the words, the book. The language was arcane yet accessible and the lyricism was graceful and natural, not in the least bit forced. All the ideas, chapter names, foot notes, the foreword; every small detail rendered in perfect clarity. Now that I am fully awake and writing, I cannot recall any of the words or topics. I feel a great deprivation, yet I also feel perfectly content. The loss of art, the loss of my ideas (for this moment) does not haunt me. For the time being it does not consume me. The void left within these lines, the hollow spaces that demand to be shaded in with a certain poetry, is due solely to my sloth, my indifference, my self consuming nihilism. I mourn the loss of the “book”, but I celebrate the unique experience of being privileged enough to have experienced such a lucid dream. They are rare and should be cherished as such, which truthfully makes it slightly difficult to accept the loss, but on the same hand is the only thing that justifies feeling the loss. The process, after all, is the point, it is the reason. The reason to drop everything.

Drop your stitches like insect wings, drop the crooked branch disguised as your right arm. Drop yourself right out of your skin. Drop art, drop Surrealism, drop your wife, drop god, and drop the glass slipper from your lost night (oh how I hold on).

Drop music, drop painting, drop film. Drop writing and drop this pen.

now pick it back up