Literary, a mental structure I abide by so strictly, because I’m often aggravated if people use the wrong words in sentences when the practice is elementary.

I force feelings to words while so many keep in the current of an intangible gist, to which they might feel, or they might solely be on the hunch that life is dissolving matter. I do so in order to easily combat what my mind wants to enforce, and it either gives in or my subconscious and consciousness set into a stalemate.

Words are but circle, similar to that of the one of life; in place are stages you face, and each is more complex than the last, and you may only progress after wholly comprehending the last. But unlike life, the Circle of Words is exponentially more difficult to conquer, and many never make it halfway. This is not because one’s capacity to adopt good grammar or vocabulary, it is a matter of one’s willingness to completely understand the constructs of words, and all words, in no matter the fashion, to a point where such an individual is truly exhausted of words. What does this look like? Well, this individual says less to others in all modes of conversing. They cannot conjure the mental energy to type or speak extensively to others; they cannot speak. What does completing this circle entail, and what comes afterwards? I do believe that overcoming all syntactic trenches and hills and valleys does throw you into a dark oblivion, to which to sweetly meet each and every day, similar to what one may think they see while delusional. But you are free, however, and in this oblivion, you know life to consist only of words, and yet no words are assigned to anything at all! And unlike stars, words are mobile and behave as particles of dust, and you may be allotted the right by your own means to use words however you like, but always abide by simple pillars, whereas all “to” types and all “your” types must be used correctly, for example.

But speaking is no longer something you can pull off extensively, and in the oblivion in which you’ve fallen, you naturally implore new styles. You may say “ain’t” at this point, and only you are aware that “ain’t” is properly usable.

Perhaps this is all wrong, and I do think that quite often. Whereas my writings are merely a method in which my mind spills its poisoned contemplations in the medium of words. Regardless of who enjoys the prior works, future works, of my own, or simply hates them, or truly does not understand what the hell they mean, neither do I most of the time. And truthfully, my literary works are structured and told in a terribly Picasso-esque manner and are too beyond the realm of abstract to be considered abstract; to be abstract still implies a core narrative.

The concept is somewhat like that of trend-focused music; to write stories solely from one’s dreams. I do, in all facets of the practice, believe dreams provide the most potent and original of stories. Likewise, I have grossly vivid dreams, of course they are lucid. I once used to purposefully eat sugar or drink milk just before bed in hopes to induce such dreams. They would all be nightmares, and there were no patterns across them; they were all variable. What was fascinating to me was that my mind would allow them be as gory or vicious as possible; being a victim of a school shooter, witnessing the atmosphere peel away as an asteroid slowly brought an orange and hellish hue over some familiar cityscape, and I would never wake up surprised. Time goes on, as it does, and nightmares were the only dreams I had, and would have very frequently, and would accept them and only deem them as fascinating.

With a manuscript donning over seven-hundred pages filled top-to-bottom without breaks after paragraphs, formatted to a standard children’s book-sized page, with the font set to five and line spacing set to one, some dreams leak into real life.