I must explore this thread of thoughts, as quite
emphatically; this place of psychologists and psychiatrists and those of us
trekking through this inner world. We call it pain; this abstractly concrete
reality; to ask so gently: “What type of pain; and the nature of its origin?” There is a dream within a dream, as too, a
brain within a brain, where traumatic experience becomes a sub-mind; to have
reflected upon something spiritual, but an actual manifestation of this
sub-brain. For instance: there was this man, resting softly, when his body
began to shake violently. He addressed the trauma by name, and it responded
with confirmation. In another instance, this same man was sitting at a
computer, where something seemed to jump into him. This thing was filled with
this chilly feeling, as too, it distorted his facial muscles. The man pondered
these seeming realities, while hesitant to explain them away. What follows
speaks to such experiences.
The person is not the trauma. It isn’t that person per se,
but rather the trauma caused by that person.
We stare afar, peering into memories, while confronted with
time; those spacial brackets, at tears, this phantom, that type of linguistics;
as closing in, this song for healing, as to anger trauma; this image of substance,
a form within a form, so dreamy this reality; while to silence mystery, this
thing that is, as burdened by reason; this
race of thoughts, to affect a sub-brain, as a sub-mind becomes a shadow. We
wonder of spirits, speaking through vice, this inner dimension; as to exclude
the religious, this space of choices,
as to favor sciences; this lurking reality, this woman’s voice, where such was
the cause of traumas; at several appearances, within a short breadth of time,
for leaps are carrying his soul; that upward flight, so casual this dream—a
body churned chilly. We know this life, as framed in memories, this force
suffering from mimicry; this ride by stars, as to feel for haunted, as religiosity proves favoritism; that
center by self, where traumas laugh, at ease to appear yearly. We want for
more, this daily event, as to provoke trauma—that recognition; to avoid
conceptions, while conceiving conceptions, approaching the deepest threads of reason; this float through limbo, to do
the opposite, where trauma becomes infuriated: this maze of battles, where
chills refer to anger, as trauma loses its grip. Such is that war, this college
of wisdom, this wizard by inner trainings; but to reason as sources—that deep
mimicry, that state of ambivalence—where trauma speaks, as to stress one with
introjects, where the primary brain is surfacing; that realm of converse, that
facetious grin, as to realize a hint of paranoia. It’s losing its reign—this
reason for actions, upon one as a phantom; that place of realities, as streaming
through madness, as too to experience something religious; that psychic kiss, those mystic trances, this thing by
rites a force.
