Mass Transit(ory) Possession

June 22, 2021

The descent of the mind into the metal heartbox

I Repeat: this is not a demoralizing hell-scape, it is my Sanctuary.

Thrones draped in red velour, surrounded by holy silver columns that will ward off any malignant spirits. I am here practicing 𝓶𝓲𝓷𝓭𝓯𝓾𝓵𝓷𝓮𝓼𝓼 for $3.25, one way at a time. A strange man hulk-rips the metal doors ajar for me so I don’t miss my train—“that is G*d”, I think to myself. Or maybe just a man who embodies Christ consciousness. Good thing I wore a skirt today. I am sitting adjacent a soiled metro seat and I am listening to “Debussy’s Greatest Hits.” Paul Verlaine inspired Debussy to compose Clair de Lune with his poem, Clair de Lune. I feel like he should’ve titled it something else but that’s none of my business. Verlaine was inspired to write the poem after reading Baudelaire’s, Les Fleur du Mal. Baudelaire was a crude realist, whereas Verlaine was a lyrical symbolist who most people know for shooting his teenage lover in a drunken rage. He suffered from melancholia and disillusionment. He also wrote poetry to spite his father. (We totally would’ve gotten along.) If I were a poet, I would be described as a scandalous and suicidal bohemian, like Bridgette Bardot in La Vérité.

Les grands jets d’eau sveltes parmi les marbles.

The tall slender foundations among marble statues.

If I squint, we all look like marble statues. But I’m not sure because this may be a sensory delusion, a sweet little precious, neurotic hallucination. They don’t scare me, I love to see things. If I am on the subway I am no doubt sleep deprived, on my way to nowhere. I am likely to also be suffering the consequences of cocktailing prescription sedatives and otc stimulants as a diy agoraphobia cure. 𝗙𝗔𝗜𝗟𝗘𝗗 𝗔𝗧𝗧𝗘𝗠𝗣𝗧. 𝗬𝗼𝘂’𝘃𝗲 𝗲𝘅𝗰𝗲𝗲𝗱𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗻𝘂𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝗼𝗳 𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗺𝗽𝘁𝘀. 𝗬𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗮𝗰𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁 𝗵𝗮𝘀 𝗯𝗲𝗲𝗻 𝗹𝗼𝗰𝗸𝗲𝗱. Neurons are firing and I need the voices in my overactive auditory cortex to guide me, now more than ever.

My mind continues to wander during 𝓶𝓲𝓷𝓭𝓯𝓾𝓵𝓷𝓮𝓼𝓼; I am not encompassing the purity of my mind, I am literally just straight up suffering. I pretend this is a Vipanssana retreat. This metal box car is my monastic community. My awareness is sharp as a tack, I am seeing everything for what it is. I feel everything, I am everything.

“The mind is everything. What you think, you become” -Buddha.

Soooo true Buddha.

My Nitro Cold Brew Delirium shakes hands with my Nootropic Filled 5D Chess Brain and I begin composing études in the recesses of my mind. I will obliterate Debussy with my mental mastery. Debussy failed to escape Sasmara and reach Nirvana. I will not. I don’t even have a piano on me right now and yet I am melodic, omniscient. People are throwing gold coins my way like I’m some prodigy.Being a prodigy seems like an omen. (Not inherently bad, not inherently good.)

I’d do anything to be the sacrificial lamb. (I love attention).

In Żuławski’s Possession, when Isabelle Adjani has her hysterical emotional breakdown in the metro station, excreting blood and vomit, frothing and screeching, i’m like—you know, that is so me. That is sooo me right now! This frenzied scene pops into my head, a recurring intrusive thought. I maniacally laugh. That is how you get a good seat on public transit, by the way. Laughter makes people nervous. Maybe because at times it is indistinguishable from crying. I laugh even harder when I imagine an ungodly white liquid, seeping out of the sides of my mouth. “Oh the looks on their faces!” I muse. And then my smile fades because I remember that Possession is a love story not a psychological horror.

I miss my stop but it’s okay, when I do this I am fragmenting time. I am distorting linearity like a bad girl. I need a little bandage for my neck; Adjani-Core. It is fragile yet demented: ♥ duality ♥ Gemini season has come to a close so I must now turn it [redacted] down a notch.

Anyways, I am going to continue seeking divine quietude, contemplating G*d, and advocating for hesychasm. I do think it’s nice when everybody just shuts up and accepts the humility of one’s own existence through mystical prayer. A ukulele AND an accordion perfomance are happening simultaneously before my last stop. This is duality, this is the most beautiful hymn. My divine timing is unmatched. Debussy is rolling in his grave.

This is nepsis. This is my katharsis.