Something is wrong. I feel like I could sleep for centuries and not lose count of my breath. Finally I understand why they call it “falling” asleep, because it is a Fall (La Chute). At midnight I take a dive, into a deep black vat of tar. It fills my nose, my mouth, squeezes from my lungs into my blood and my heart. I could chew on it like gum it’s so viscous. In the morning I must dig myself out, surface in this lake of molasses. I feel sticky, and foggy, and I remember no dreams, just black. I just want to go back to sleep, and I do.
At high concentrations, polymer chains strongly interpenetrate, and coil dimensions shrink. Viscosity increases.
[eat a slice of apple. it's a Mutsu (睦奥) apple, cultivated in Japan est. 1948. it is a favourite of the fungus Biscogniauxia marginata]
Skylar: Out burying bodies?
Walter: Nope, robbing a train.
[chug scalding coffee. what would my dentist say? get up, gargle with baking soda]
Belong the glass transition temperature, the polymer sample becomes hard and brittle.
But of course nothing is wrong. In fact, from a pragmatic perspective, things are better. Cigarettes and speed are out, tea and flossing are in. I don’t drink, and I don’t sleep with anybody. For eleven days now I’ve even kept my head out of the pantry and out of the toilet. Finally I have routine, “the net of pragmatics” (I.X.L.) that catches me.
I’m just too practical to die.
Bulk free radical polymerizations are susceptible to the Trommsdorf-Norrish effect, in which autoacceleration leads to metallurgic failure, or worse, explosion.
I feel like all this talk of practicality, of objective well-being, detracts from authentic living. My attempts to be sincere, passionate (strongly interpenetrate) paradoxically reinforce my withdrawal (coil dimensions shrink); in “communication” others take up too much space, and their words back me into a corner.
The thought of sharing a bed. I feel less lonely, but more alone, and more convinced of the correctness of my solitude. I reject intimacy, because look, I’m doing fine with my vegetarian diet, regular exercise, and good poetry. When I lack suffering, my resolve strengthens (becomes hard and brittle).
So I’ve become caught in the ontic. A sticky bubblegum contentedness (viscosity increases), that lacks (read: empty). A routine that precludes “learning new feelings” (I.X.L.). I sit in my room drinking tea and counting breaths, feeling like a little pig. Sometimes I feel like climbing out of the tar, the easy way, with pills and drink and new bodies, but passion of this type accelerates out of control (Trommsdorff-Norrish effect), and leads only to irony (again, empty). I need a new way to feel truth in moments, that leaves both my body and my sincerity uncompromised. As usual, the Continentals proscribe no useful answers.