dream machine

i was depressed and then i remembered i need to be productive



I had this dream with my eyes open that we were standing on the sidewalk by the dorm I used to live at with our hands held tight. It’s usually silent there besides the cars that missed the cul de sac and the kids leaving nursery but it was 7pm in this dream and the sun was setting and all I could hear was the ringing in my ears and the thumping of my heart. 



I whisper jokes in your ear and you flinch and tell me not to say those things out loud but it doesn’t really matter when the concrete is stubble and I am far too stubborn to think before I speak in moments when I feel heavily for this. For if I were to whisper any louder I’m certain something would shift between us, I often concur.



It’s an aside but I’m not sure if we think of the same things sometimes but I’m only not sure because I think so much on my own. I’ve always had this fervent dream of adaptive machines wherein the computers we use morph in the same concurrent streams of bits as they do but this time akin to music on an architectural scale. I don’t always fuck with machine learning but sometimes I wonder if they’d help us learn more about ourselves, they being the soulless keyboards I click and clack on even now, clock cycles on transistor mounts.



I spent like a whole year pondering if I believe in God and the answer at least for now is that I don’t think I can care anymore than I do. If free will posits itself in the crux of my psyche I’m sure a glimmer of hope will find its way through the efferent waves of migraines and tenuation amidst extrospection. I could play God on my gameboy all the time. I’m not always sure I even know what I mean but Sartre and I have had a word on that. Kant claims we always wish to be closer to nature but alas I have grown to love quaint, imaginative UIs and the bits that build up electronic music.



So yeah, I mean, I’ve been quivering in this pseudo-ruminative reality that I exist in wherein everything I see is consistently diluted by the onslaught of ideation I ascribe myself to. If I am not bigger than myself then what am I meant for? Persistence in this state is ego but ultimately I hold still, eager.



All thoughts aside it’s true I still have these dreams that you and I are closer than you had imagined. I recently read that after 22 seconds of a hug oxytocin gets released which makes no sense with the agony for which I wish we could hug forever. But I think Kant would be angry at me for this ruminative, technological barrier to nature for which my consciousness holds. (I’ve constructed such a dream that sometimes I fail to remember to loosen the grip) Remember when we used to hold our breath underwater and count for however long our lungs could hold? There was this time that the tides were strong at the lagoon at Disneyworld and I scraped my knee and I lost count.