Cross the field moving slowly and listening with all that's heavy inside you and with all that cuts your touch. Holding a lantern that lights your way through the grey, through misty towns that spin and dance. You feel the hate that keeps the streets twisting in circles. You enter her house and you can feel anguish and blood pulsing though the air as you grasp and thrust and squirm, does it ache? You leave the streets passing again through the grey and you flake apart as you fall away to nothing and you keep your gaze hidden but animal eyes are glowing black and reflective of yourself. When it's colder I'll find you and i'll touch you and remind you of where we used to be. Blood in the dirt reminds me of us, the earth and your eyes. The black dog that pulled us apart can now only hunt you in the dead of night when sleep comes slowly and you heart beats loudly. When she breathes while she dreams listen for the silences and you may find me there.

Everything is flowing, nothing will sit still, high on oxytocin and high on insanity. I need you so perfect and lost, I don't even believe in this but here I am again fueled on delusion. Maybe I'll give in to this, burn incense and think of you in the dark. The shape of you, your edges blurry and tangible. I'll have you bound in fury, bound in madness, bound in what we are yet to have. Look what you have done to me? Maybe we will fall apart and turn to stone but at least the bed will be warm and we'll be safe here. You could mean nothing to me or you could mean everything. You can flow into me, seep through my veins and make my world spin faster.

Antonin Artaud

Moon

Bitter tasting tonight,
Jealous of some obscene tart,
Dark, cavernous, dirty with clouds
Floating between the moon and us.

Rancorous moon on the sea,
It was a cheerless moon,
Like a sick man's thoughts,
On the nature of the universe.

In the fabled dark
Where the moon had risen,
Summer's calm,
Stretched out in it's hazy foliage.

The Bad Dreamer

My dreams are mostly liquid. I am immersed in sorts of nauseous waters where the blood-red films toss and turn. I never rise up to the level of certain impressions, whether in my dreams or real life. I am never settled in the continuity of my life. My dreams are offered no escape, no refuge or guide. Truly the rankness of severed limbs. Besides, I am too resigned about my thought to be interested in anything that goes on in it. I ask for one thing only: to be locked away in my thought for good. And as to the physical appearance of my dreams, I told you, a liquid.

He gives words to mental states perfectly, he describes this as death approaching, I relate it to chronic anxiety.

Who in the heart?

Who in the heart of some anxiety at the bottom of certain dreams, has not known death as a marvellous disruptive feeling which could never be confused with anything else of a mental order? One must have experienced this exhausting crescendo of anguish which comes over in waves and then swells one up as if or forced by some unbearable bellows. Anguish which draws near and withdraws, each time stronger  more ponderous and replete. This is the body itself, having reached the limit of its strength and distension, and yet must go on. It is a sort of suction cup on the soul, whose acridity spreads like acid into the furthermost bounds of the senses.

Anais Nin was friends with Antonin Artaud, apparently he wanted to have her as a lover but she declined his advances. She speaks about him "Then he offered to burn everything else for me, to dedicate himself to me. I deserved a black holocaust. What would Artaud burn for me? I did not ask. And I knew that just as Allendy's magic was too white, Artaud's was black, poisonous, dangerous"

What I wrote in my diary last week..

I'm staying out on my parents farm today. I love escaping here and the calmness I feel when I am here. I like sitting with the animals and talking to them and noticing them communicating back in their own way. I sat in the rain for ages listening to the birds and my music in the background feeling uplifted and more free than I have felt in ages. I know a lot of change is going to happen soon, a lot of heart breaking change but I think if I am able to hold onto this feeling of calm I can face and survive these changes without any black neurosis touching me.

I have just finished reading Anais Nin's diary volume one, here are some parts I loved.

"I must relive my life in the dream. The dream is my only life. I see in the echoes and reverberations and transfiguration which alone keep wonder pure. Otherwise all magic is lost. Otherwise life shows it's deformities and the homeliness becomes rust. My drug, covering all things with a mist of smoke, deforming and transforming as the night does. All matter must be fused this way through the lens of my vice or the rust of living would slow down my rhythm to a sob"

I can relate to Anais's writing a lot. I also feel like I spend half my life in the real word and the other half within my dreams and fantasies. If I didn't have this dream world to escape to sometimes I feel that the mundane nature of reality would bore me down and eventually break me. So it is a necessity for me to read, write and indulge in dreaming to keep this world as part of me.

"Flesh touching flesh generates a perfume while the friction of words generates only pain and division. To formulate without destroying the mind, without tampering, without killing, without withering. That is what I have learnt by living, that delicacy and awe of the senses, that respect for the perfume. It will become my law in writing. All that was pushed into clarity and rationality, withered. The beautiful living and moving, dark things that I destroyed in passing from the nebulous realms off pure dreaming to the realization of the dream"

That is Anais writing about why she can not completely connect with the act of psychoanalysis.

Sometimes I think it is better to remain secretive in the way we think and act. To have everything we do rationalized and analytically picked apart for subconscious motives seems to kill the mysterious parts of ourselves. The parts we keep hidden behind veils, maybe these parts should remain behind veils? Sometimes it's just nice to watch a shadow move and dance without knowing what exactly that shadow belongs to and what is blocking the shine of the light.

I love how Anais says that as a writer you live twice, once while moving, speaking, interacting and later through introspective. It's true but not just through writing, we live lots of different lives through our memories and as they become hazy and stained with time who knows what we actually lived or what we dreamed, It all just flows into one beautiful mess caught in our mind's eye.

Dark Poet by Antonin Artaud

Dark Poet, a maid's breast
Haunts you,
Embittered poet, life seethes
And life burns,
And the sky reabsorbs itself in rain,
Your pen scratches at the heart of life.

Forest, forest, alive with your eyes,
On multiple pinions;
With storm-bound hair,
The poets mount horses, dogs.

Eyes fume, tongues stir,
The heavens surge into our senses
Like blue mother's milk;
Women, harsh vinegar hearts,
I hang suspended from your mouths.

Sometimes I just want to write to you and tell you about how I'm lost in all the mundane details that are blinding me from all light. Lines from books, the way the sky darkens, All that's musical, all that cuts me. The days seem longer now but in reality they're shortening with the chill I feel in the air. I wake up without you and wonder if you also feel the cold rising. I dreamt we were lost in a desert with the sand stinging our eyes and our mouths breathing out fire. We were searching for scorpions among the sand dunes convinced they held magic in their poison. Drunk on our delusions and mirages that spun around in our heads like a carnival ride that would not stop. These were our happiest moments dancing with dreams and fleeing from reality. We felt so radiant it was like we had drunk the moon and would glow for an eternity.

Coming down is like staring at yourself through shards of broken mirror, nothing quite fits together In a way you find familiar. The veiled parts of yourself rise up to the surface, nothing is hidden now.