During the summer of two-thousand-and-thirteen
many a night I did spend writing poetry
until eventually sunrise would creep up behind me
and I would realize how long I had spent
deliberating on little more than a few lines,
Tweaking their meaning, trying to find
something, a thing in them. Writing,
I aspired to go beyond rhyme,
To reconcile the world with my wanting mind
That searching, in-itself, was sublime;
In the act of poiesis one becomes divine.

Those were some of the best nights of my life,
Always ending with the sounds of the dawn chorus
which would rankle with me as I'd try to drift off
into a content and thickly sleeping state, from which I'd awake
groggily, in the afternoon of the same day.
That summer was my life.

Qualia, if they exist, describe experience.

Perceptions are frames of consciousness
that define experience: would they be given a number
representing frames per second [FPS].

There must be something to perceive
for there to be experience, and the perceiver:
A machine/dreamer through which energy flows
for perception to occur; neural oscillation cycles
equating to perceptual frames of consciousness
where a frequency would equal a certain FPS.

A moment in a dream, a quale.
The realm of the Oneiroi beckons:

During REM sleep there is no experiential context,
Suppose a dream's content is be sourced from memory:
Thence memory morphs into dreaming. Perhaps the actions
of acetylcholine during sleep disrupt temporality, meanwhile
serotonin and norepinephrine play another role in dream activity;
Were dopamine ever-so minutely implicit in lucidity?

If a dream could be quantized could we identify a quale?
The goal, to prove that qualia exist. Perhaps this 'heavy realm'
could then be described using this qualitative formula, we strive
to produce a quantum of experience.

As analogue is to digital, so digital should be to quanta.
Ah, but who would ever listen
to my nonsense.

I'm just a dreamer
and such a chancer. (Aren't we all?)

Dendrobium Nobile is from the orchid family,
A plant containing 17 phenanthrenes
exemplī grātiā: 3,4,8-trimethoxyphenanthrene-2,5-diol.

A pharmacological stew, and a stimulant
of some kind.
I think sleep will be possible

after another while.
Spent the night dancing
to grime, garage and electronica.

I came to a possible realisation,
You're as likely to change the world
by writing a paper or going into politics
as you are by taking drugs in a park
or talking furiously at strangers;
That's surely false. What strange,
******-up, vain-glorious worlds
we choose to live in. Yurt (for social justice)!

I want out.
I just want out.
Who doesn't want
to escape,

How many fall prey to
distraction along the way?
They get high, or comfortable
because they can afford to escape.

Nevermind the sober,
Ignore the starving,
Let apathy destroy
everything humanism yearned for.

There's nowhere to run, nor is there anyone,
Who would risk it, those migrants, them exiles
and the refugees, what are they fleeing from?
Not to engage in confrontation, to escape from
the war we brought to their homeland. We did this,
We made the world the way it is today, sitting here
typing away. What am I trying to say? Escape or change,
When you escape you forfeit your say, they'll change anyway.

How painful must it be to leave your home, to grapple with that
it was taken away, and one's say; we sit here, typing for change,
Trying to escape.

I was standing at my laptop, tripping, when the thought hit me: the reason we're so infatuated with technology is born of our yearning for control. What a lovely illusion to cherish, knowing does not detract from its merit; it sedates me wonderfully.

Ah but perhaps that's why Facebook is so addictive, as it lies in between ours and others spheres' of control. We push and pull, trying to hang on to these puppet personas. It's unendingly stimulating.

Virtuality offers us everything, and it's easily abused. So,
Here's something to always remember about the internet:

Once you put something online/out there it is no longer yours.

Yes, this applies to your words, you cannot control interpretations
nor can you prevent the theft of your world. Unlike reality,
Virtuality knows nothing of material scarcity,
The limit's the bandwidth and there be pirates aboard.
What am I if not begging for someone to come steal me? Take me away!

I don't have a name, all you can desecrate are these emotions I crave.
I'm writing these things because it stops me from killing somebody but
by all means, appropriate me, my work, my words, my world.

Maybe you'll add a bit of value to it, and god loves a data-*****.

On a final note, sometimes I am really afraid to be myself
because sometimes I think I'm a monster;
But I am getting better.


So there you go.

Can everything we experience be delegated to brain activity?
What is mystical, how is it transmitted?
Who witnessed the birth of the empyreal?
Whatever is The Empyrean?

So many drifting realms call out
and questing minds have sought,
Time-in/time-out, to find them
yet again, resolving to determine
that definition, the word: 'change'.

The loneliness of the Apotheon is in its seeking
to control change, forever chasing an illusion,
Day-after-day. The surge of Endorphus is just
an extension of the lust of Entactus, it pushes
things farther, further away, the melancholy of
Empathos draws them closer to us (at dusk),
Alexithymia was begging to be broken, so chained
t'was by a human, pondering the depths of Absurdia
and beyond; a love of The Psychedelion might yet prove
harmonizing enough to climb over this wall that was built
to constrain our thought, make no mistake, t'was built by us.
Night-afore-night we remember a way to bypass Choler, to rend asunder temporality via escapism's wonders, quantizing oneirogenesis, living dreams.
I dreamt I lived in a keep,
How strange, a castle was my home;
It was homely though.
Hence the forlorn appearance of The Entheon
as (by dawn) it let go
of the notion of control,
Reflecting our determination {from eons ago/for aeons to come}