Copyright 2012 Forrest Aguirre
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The grist for my tale ascends from the boiling of my thoughts. They are a churning stew of experience, blind opinion, psychic stress, belief, eccentricity, and whimsical fantasy. It is this moil of confusion that prevents me from objectification. They collide, debate, and contradict one another, each vying for acceptance from me in an attempt to become my reality. They claw at each other, trying to submerge their immediate opponent in obscurity, only to be taken and shoved under by another. A thought surfaces from the dark well of sub consciousness; I view, with stark clarity, its face. It is as utterly vivid as any physical object I have seen, heard, tasted, or felt. Then, after hovering in my view only momentarily, the thought is pulled from beneath like Dante's Sullen and Angry in the River Styx, disappearing into an ill-defined gloom, only to be replaced by the slow surfacing of another. It is as if the stage is mobbed by the audience, an anarchical confluence of Masses' Tyranny imposed upon the director's wishes, the play writing itself. It is uncontrollable, this onslaught of visionary sub consciousness. I am engulfed by it.