Suddenly my dreams shifted into a nightmarish cascade of mad images and impressions and I was soon greeted with a horrific image: the darkness was illuminated but within were endless processions of spindly insects crawling in lines, all in a single direction towards some point off in the distance.
My mind fought. It attempted to climb its way recursively backwards, attempting to assemble a narrative while I still dreamed. What did it all mean? A vague story presented itself broken, an oscillating tremolo of mere glimpses, as if I had to squint to peer through the cracks of a fence to grasp some truth: of order and light coalescing out of some vast black madness. Of disgust and despair birthed out of some great thrill.
I awoke sick, reeling. My mind was still attempting to produce a pattern, passing over and over a thought that couldn't be articulated like a broken ratchet. What did it mean? Was it something in the water? Something I ate? Was I thinking too much? Bitten? Poisoned? But it could be anything. It could be nothing.
The logical mind is ultimately a compression machine, an organ that assembles intelligible order out of a vast, infinite, unknowable canvas. It proceeds in a linear fashion from a single thread to produce a contour for navigating with. But there was no answer because the threads were all going in too many directions. I had to let it all go lest I be dragged down with it.
