Experienceing the line between reality and fiction tastes indescribable, feels reality bending.
Reality, sometimes fluid often pliable can be the original awsome, even creepy, depending on the cultural vocabulary of images you can reach for when you attempt to describe what the hell just happend, or didn’t, either way, to yourself.
The universe isn’t so dull, is it, that each experiancer, always gets the same “unimaginable” experiance, always clearly describable in no uncertain terms, predictable, always positive or always negative or always neutral?
The boring-est movie ever is just like that. Zero ratings is just like the way I notice expecting my reality to behave: bland, unsurprising, predicable, all done before then institutionalized in some Bible or other. The terms, the code rules my experience snuggles under, folds into and creates itself by must be wearing a mass uniform.
My expectations must be so I can pass the boring enough test, sane enough test, scientific enough test, has it happened before enough test.
Then, if it happens to pass those tests, these ones will weed it out: The is it possible? imaginable? repeatable? duplicatable? Even the just credible tests I lay on myself cuz I sorta want to fit in turn my world pink and elephantine.
Does my world exsist?
Squishing this me into a tiny cell I give myself as a sanity challenge doesn’t only look weird.
Squashes brain, constricts heart, deflates lungs, feet and hands cramp and tingle, tucked in tight.
I am gonna fit in. I wanna live in the world.
To live in here, is to fit in here.
Toes can’t even wiggle.
Wooooot! I am sane!
That and love began to exist the precise instant science figured out how to prove it does.
Before that, it didn’t exsist.