The Blurred Lines of Reality
Why is it that whenever I decide to read One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest I myself feel like a patient on a mental ward? What is it about this narrative piece of fiction that connects with my brain ever-so-closely?
I have no resemblance to any of the characters as a whole. But I, like many I’m sure, have inherited an ensemble of mental deficiencies that seem to creep up at certain times of the year. Though I must say they have to be inherent the whole year round.
I’m sorry for the crazy talk but I’m about to turn 30 years old and for whatever reason I’ve been searching for more meaning out of every aspect of my core life that it has been driving me nuts. Perhaps I subconsciously gravitated toward Cuckoo because of this. What I do know for sure at this point is that I need some Shock Therapy. Not in the literal sense But I need something to short out these circuits.
You see when you have OCD, or any kind of self-diagnosed obsession disorder you tend to go way overboard on just about every tangent of your life. Where John Johnson might just slag off a word that he heard before bed as nothing but what it is, a word; I may very well try to find the numerical meaning behind the amount of letters in that word. I may ponder the origin of that word. Upon pondering origins I may begin to think about Latin. What is Latin? Why is it everywhere on American Documents like money and such? This leads to another tangent and then another until I find myself back at the word in question.
And so what does all that have to do with turning 30? And will these paragraphs hold relevance 1 day after 30? I don’t know the answer to that. And that is the answer to all the questions: I just don’t have the capacity to know all the answers.
Within this quagmire a person can lose a sense of what is real and what is a non-real. This feels non-real to tell you the truth. Writing this, talking about this. I feel insane. I feel like I should be playing poker with Harding and Cheswick. But I will read it later and be ashamed. I know this. I know me. I don’t know the answers to the stupidest questions but I know me. I know my guilt. And yet because I am feeling in a non-real state I will continue to write in this fashion. I will post this.
What is it to turn 30? And why make such a big deal of these things? It’s just a day after all. It’s just like the day before it and the day after it. But my brain thinks otherwise. Yup, it wants to re-cap events that took place years and years ago. I don’t know why. But a lot of these events were bad. Some were good. And some were non-real. Maybe they were all non-real.
Maybe this right now is non-real.
I have no resemblance to any of the characters as a whole. But I, like many I’m sure, have inherited an ensemble of mental deficiencies that seem to creep up at certain times of the year. Though I must say they have to be inherent the whole year round.
I’m sorry for the crazy talk but I’m about to turn 30 years old and for whatever reason I’ve been searching for more meaning out of every aspect of my core life that it has been driving me nuts. Perhaps I subconsciously gravitated toward Cuckoo because of this. What I do know for sure at this point is that I need some Shock Therapy. Not in the literal sense But I need something to short out these circuits.
You see when you have OCD, or any kind of self-diagnosed obsession disorder you tend to go way overboard on just about every tangent of your life. Where John Johnson might just slag off a word that he heard before bed as nothing but what it is, a word; I may very well try to find the numerical meaning behind the amount of letters in that word. I may ponder the origin of that word. Upon pondering origins I may begin to think about Latin. What is Latin? Why is it everywhere on American Documents like money and such? This leads to another tangent and then another until I find myself back at the word in question.
And so what does all that have to do with turning 30? And will these paragraphs hold relevance 1 day after 30? I don’t know the answer to that. And that is the answer to all the questions: I just don’t have the capacity to know all the answers.
Within this quagmire a person can lose a sense of what is real and what is a non-real. This feels non-real to tell you the truth. Writing this, talking about this. I feel insane. I feel like I should be playing poker with Harding and Cheswick. But I will read it later and be ashamed. I know this. I know me. I don’t know the answers to the stupidest questions but I know me. I know my guilt. And yet because I am feeling in a non-real state I will continue to write in this fashion. I will post this.
What is it to turn 30? And why make such a big deal of these things? It’s just a day after all. It’s just like the day before it and the day after it. But my brain thinks otherwise. Yup, it wants to re-cap events that took place years and years ago. I don’t know why. But a lot of these events were bad. Some were good. And some were non-real. Maybe they were all non-real.
Maybe this right now is non-real.
posted by DeesKnees at 2:31 PM
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