I was in a sleeping bag, my last night in Berlin. For two hours, my mind leapt around many things. I sat up, stared at the clock with a still restlessness that I couldn't really understand, grabbed my notebook from my bag and went to the bathroom. I'm reading what I wrote then right now.
I wrote: What does it mean that, in pursuit of ideas, I can only travel from one continent to another on this water-bearing planet when the edges of the universe have not even been conceived of yet? When we still don't have the means to understand fully what creates, entraps, defines and captures us, as captivating, ethereal, and wholly coincidental as it is? Obviously being on another continent does things to my strange sense of place.
I also wrote about superhero fantasies, adoption, connections, a letter to a lover... and things I need to do this summer.
I'm not sure what was going on then. Above the margins I drew a little diagram with arrows that went... thought > anxiety > more thoughts + no sleep > more anxiety. A few lines below that, I wrote: I'm approaching the limits of cognitive function. Enough said?
