If you can’t sleep, write. Trivial suggestion, but since sleep and restlessness are among the demons of my existence, it doesn’t seem too wrong to at least do something useful with this time. Being frustrated in bed doesn’t change anything in the end. So, the least I can do is put down on paper some scatter-brained thoughts. Virtual, of course. Do I have to explain something like that? Probably not. And yet I am always entertaining myself with self-referential thoughts. Because. Because. Tree. Ha, ha. Super funny. Not. I lost my sense of humour as soon as I realized, life’s a joke anyway. That’s deep. Or not. What the hell do I know? If I go completely crazy at some point and leave this world in a breath-taking hurricane full of blood and excessive violence, then countless smart people will try to find out whether they could have seen all this coming and if these thoughts here can explain why a person acts the way he does. Spoilers: They can’t. Often enough, I don’t even understand myself, so it would be an extraordinary feat if others could do it. But hey, nothing is impossible, you do you. I occasionally wonder whether it is actually normal for one’s own thoughts to descend into bloodlust every now and then. Do other people think that as well? Do you see someone standing in front of you at the checkout counter, while in your head an index-worthy splatter film is running, illustrating how you repeatedly hit this person’s skull plate against the steel edge of the checkout equipment because you can’t stand his stupid grin? His stench, his face, his feeble-minded ramblings. Simply everything about the other’ s existence is despicable. Even the fact of him breathing the same air is an outrage. Are such thoughts odd or very normal? Does it speak for or against my stability as a personality if I am aware of these thoughts, reflect on them and try to put them into a corresponding context? How thin is my veil of civilization? What does it take for these thoughts to break out of imagination into reality? Does such a catalyst even exist? Can I anticipate this and take countermeasures in advance? Should I do that? If I put this text online in a few weeks, I would not be surprised to receive a visit from the esteemed executive soon. But I doubt my thoughts are relevant enough to have any consequences. Is it this discrepancy between my personal behaviour and what is happening in my head which allows me to keep some balance? A balance between highly destructive and creative processes? I’m a fucking flower regarding social interactions. Weird stuff. This is all so crazy. It might actually be exciting to talk about it with a therapist. Not so much to find a solution, but primarily for a risk assessment. Which I personally consider to be relatively minor. But you never know. Maybe all this is just another manifestation of the extremes within my social relationships. Another characteristic of absurd polarities. I would probably literally walk through fire for some people in my life, but the rest could hardly be more indifferent to me. Is that normal? Do others also think in such absolute categories? I wish I could live the lives of others for a certain time. Just to get some insight. Yeah, yeah, great movie reference, I know. Hardly planned. Is it even relevant whether such thoughts are normal, as long as I am still able to distinguish between fiction and reality? Somehow a recurrent theme currently. Are the boundaries becoming more and more blurred or are they becoming more distinct as I formulate them more explicitly and thus make them more tangible? Do I flee reality into my head, or do I flee from my head into reality? And who is me anyway? How dissolved is my sense of self by now? Can I still grasp myself or am I just a string of countless variables whose causes I do not know? How can I find myself if I don’t know whether these selves even exist? Maybe I am just imagining everything? Solipsism is for idiots, I know. But maybe I am one? It’s quite possible I’ m less smart than originally thought, and for someone who has far more brainpower than I do, this all seems to read completely at ease. It’s just somebody trying to be really special because that’s all he has in life. Reflecting on reflections. More meta is not possible. Oh, I don’t know where all this is going. I’m thinking about making a literary work out of all this. A few adjustments here and there, a few dramaturgical tricks and full speed into the abyss. Or not. Wouldn’t that be ironic. The reader waits hundreds of pages for the great tragedy which never happens. But if I wrote this, it would spoil the surprise. Unless I just want him to think it never happens and therefore feel supposedly safe. Question after question. I don’t know the answers myself. I don’t need to. The consideration of what, if there ever is one, will come out of all these words in the end, does not need to be concluded. I think I’m just letting myself be surprised. So, I’m just as smart as the inclined reader, if there ever was one. This could be exciting. Or not. You never know.