I will now transcribe again the original note.
The book is both done and undone
Reading and meditation seem to be triggering it. I like this. There i just flipped back. Writing seems to be x2 as I can imagine, write, read and imagine again, when "feeling" i it came to me {I like this}, it was me*2 =i ?
MORE CONTROL IS NEEDED, the line is {flickers≠weak}
When I first found the book on the corner of the flat, I honestly thought it was left there as a courtesy of a memento of the place, in such an old house, but hey, it's London here anything can happen, like the bomb from one of the wars that randomly appeared in Soho.
I moved to this flat not so long ago, Finsbury Park seemed like the correct place to be, and what a journey it has been, lovely people, and the Tadeo of this corner of town has such a fine weed that I could not ask for a better reception than when he gave me his number, off, just right on the feels.
I have been lucky so far, I cannot complain, but the accident changed some things, at least I have assurances, not a massive problem just yet. While I am not on a bed, crippled like I would have been if it was just physical my problem, I am not well either, my mind is still unstable and that can be a bit scary, but oddly enough it feels, {safe} {natural} with soft echoes on beyond the line.
Not all disabilities are visible, what a true way to say it, cheers to the tube copywriter, it was never so i. When time was lost, coming back was almost a boiling desire of existence, a fear of being, a destruction of the sense of reality to understand what defines my unwellness. How do you understand the mind that has been broken using one of its fragments? It's what is known as dispersion. When I came back the book was there, on the borders or the mind both existing and not, both glorious and ugly, asphyxiating.
This book is a weird one, first, it was just a echo of time memorial, several attempts to reach it have been completely unsuccessful but this time, it came to me as such an abstract concept of existence that its valid to say that it proved itself to me, its both my book and i.
It's 6:45, at least that's the Alexa display, Xmas time, lovely lonely January, the weather is bad at the end of winter they say. At this time is the hideous journaling routine, why would someone despise writing so much to call it journaling, it's almost blasphemous to the old demons and the new. Ugh.
I am just a normal human being trying to survive, my mind is a bit unwell, but my thoughts seem to wander to a realm of itself, the realm that I call the realm of i.
Not really sure if I call it like that but that's definitely the best way to understand it, the realm appeared to me in my daily life from early on, but I did not believe most of the stories of the old family, from the will oh wisps, giant spiders, and flying cars. Yeah sounds just like the one we should not name. How can you believe that, not even a kid will, so it's hard to understand how that same magic, defined my reality.
I was called {colo} back then, cute kid, I never understood how cute until I got old, and believe me, I could have been worse, and this is coming from a kid who lit on fire the street, literally the pavement.
I have always had an acute mind, emotional, sensible and sensitive which now are so obviously different that is {}. Fast at talking, faster at doing, I and what you can call a kid with ADHD, still a kid.
If my body moves fast, that's not even close to how fast my brain can move, I thought it was normal, that association was a normal human skill that we all had. It was hard to function in society when you are a gullible kid, always the first to finish, always the last to arrive home with a message for my parents; reason why I learned their signatures early on, even my dad's. That one was hard. One day he saw me practising and just looked at me and said: Cuidadito. And left with a cheeky smile, he knew, he knew at that moment that he had a problem, a cheeky one, a black sheep. I think he smiled because of himself a bit.
I have always been able to see more of what most people see. I have a visual imagination that can be projected into things, the control of a lonely kid, the loneliness of not even having an imaginary friend. Not because I did not have friends, but because I thought it was normal to see the world like I did. I became the odd one pretty quickly after primary school, what a butchery was high school. There I had to learn how to be a human once, that was a pure jungle of casts, money and looks, and I had just myself to blame, how much I longed for myself. If I could do it when I was 15, I should be able to pull it off now.
When the book appeared, I was a bit slow still, on the corners of my vision I could see the rough book with leathery covers, I had been doing some old though dumping into it, that connection maybe, was true enough to open the first portal to it. Just needed time.
Oddly enough, at that moment, I could feel the connection, the calling of the realm to be on the book; time was one of the entries on it.
Time. Presence and action define how one perceives the passage of time. It's not felt linearly, {Time is Emotional}**.
Human perception alters the way time passes and forms an alternative structure that gets created in the memory. Is the memory of time real?, Is the present just a construction of past actions or not? How can someone interpret time? Should then time always be eternal? Or it's perception and point of view that creates time.
Would absolute inertia in the nothingness be timeless and at the same time moving and static?
The drawings of this book seem to be obscure but almost understandable, nothing beyond my realm of knowledge of design. Some odd structures, but they are more intuitive than intended.
It's really interesting to try to understand how easy is to draw something after writing some ideas before. Why is that? Is there a clog? Like a mental waste of the day, that needs to be removed for creativity to connect with visual acuity?
It's not as fluid when there are limitations of the foal when its free forms tend to be more interesting, both to grasp the forms that hazily appear in my mind it's one of the most complex things I have ever done {Oh poor child, It's obvious that this was before i.}
It's pretty rare to be able to express the images and ideas I have in my mind. Normally, the best works develop by themselves as if they had some kind of intelligence, but at the same time, they seem to be driven by my perception. {acute}{sharp}
Would it be a day that I can see a full image done from the imagination? { i = {}} could it be a moment where the final work would be a picture of the hazy perception of my mind? It's a different realm of colours and sense. That is fluid, which makes it a Herculean task just to make it focused. It will be even harder to represent in a physical form.
Drawing of the early concept intuitive passage over [The Line], feel and sense are unconscious when going through dumping.
The book seems to be trying to remind me that I am I.