lost lost lost

I must confess I'm getting sick of the diversity of this world, of the forms in which it manifests itself. I don't like changes and the world spins around, neither to the right, nor to the left, and when you fish something out blindfold, it'll have totally different shape to what you've known, to what you've got used to and felt safe with – like the bouquet of the spices your mother used or the temperatures and the air humidity recorded by your body when you were a child. Now you open your eyes in the morning and – how shitty – everything's brand new, fresh, not yet completed, still aching a bit, but it is not about one new life, but a thousand of them, new formal brats to be tamed, brought under control – otherwise their mere number will crush you. The billion of dialects within just one language, a thousand of patterns and countless norms, each of which being for someone up there the only one acceptable. I'm sick – yes – because within one short day the light changes incessantly and after every change of set one has to adjust themselves, subtly change their position in relation to the lenses and hundreds of other elements of the constellation, but beware, you mustn't lose yourself, after each half-turn you've got to know how to bring out your personal profile to the light, either the daylight or the electric one. Flexible, but within your form.
And in the same time you know you don't mean much here and actually it's as if you weren't here at all.
That's why I enjoy sleeping so much. It's when the sensual truth agrees with the objective one – I don't exist both here and there, the right side equals the left, the equation's true. There's no you, there's no form. And look, even the world happens more peacefully then. Decently.