Following your questions:
I'm in one of those moods that could start a blog with whatever it has under its fingernails. I don't feel I need anything to get meaning into the room with me, no. After this, I'll likely wake up in a dream and repair what I can of this end of love. I can make time on the other end, but I am not feeling like anything in my mind is time I would ask make itself scarce.
1
I had these gorgeous responses written up on how I thought about my dreams. Very fiery. Very exciting. Every vein the guess a river makes at lightning. What had flare. What went thlam. What rang, and rang, and rings now.
2
A thought of saving my responses earlier stands out to me, that I passed up. A thought of copying it to clipboard, to edit. Didn't. These thoughts stand out. The electricity browns out. Responses gone. The dreams, too, mostly. I'm not... lightning, now. I'm "just carrying the message."
3
The parts where I was a data center, or a cell tower, stand out to me. What might that say? Just, how I'm this memory of all that person was. They might say what that string of digits on this textbox says. "Type your response," - the "your" there destorying me.
4
My responses are not a special task, just mine. That's something I notice the dreams and this moment share. That I'm not beating the heart, just holding it (even as I have to edit over the "beat-" and "hold-" to say what I actually mean). Just knowing there was once a hydrogen atom of a process to all this form was, and now it's just the helium squeak of all I am.
5
What do the dreams say about me? That I'm not the paragraph this space is looking for. That maybe I build up the charge again. It falls over these blanks. Their lines raise like hairs before I'm even here, how bodies know. How I am now just thunder - displacement of water on listening body. The flow of heat from my back to a space so high above my experience there are indices for the signature, dissolved. Just... this now. Some thoughts on what happening was. This isn't a debrief. It's a loving.
6
A person I lost is not with me now, or are, in every flash. They're not here to tell me how in the dreams was a tool to make the lightning the internet loves best with a single word and there they are, amber, blue, those green-pink clouds or charcoal grey or no clouds at all in frame, just how the light was as it struck across the sensor. Many colors are typing. I love the person I am at these magnitudes, it's just... to revisit these dreams is not a study for me. I get the replayability thing. I get how the last thing I wrote before the power goes out is something to the effect of "I'll keep coming back, you'll see," but I don't remember it, nearly.
7
Dreams moments ago and lifetimes away. Also, I would've liked to see exactly how, at a certain velocity, going around the loop is faster that stepping against the river. How pausing arrives as the closest some of us come to anything like that. I'd see where some give their life to the effort of returning to those waters not for themselves - they had a life - but for those willing to carry whatever that return is out, whatever process restoration is. Whatever context this artifact living in my body rent-free was in service to: "bra(/ve/)ines" - whatever it was, it was a hell of a debrief, I'm sure.
So yeah. ...Those words here.
8
The line about the stars. How everyone's stars are different textures even as the stars all carry their legal names and the rest of realty for the numinous. What else do I wish that kept going in the dreams. The long line of horizons billowing out as though river trying to remember the path of lightning, or... no, yeah that was from the lost debrief. I had to check to see you hadn't already received those, that I wasn't... wasn't repeating a response to a previous question. What a taste.
8
In the dreams, what I would change is how I was just sitting there with all that metæ(/ph/)oric charge it took to ground thoughts to now. How I'm just ozone, by comparison - the mucus the fish that moment slept in. How much of a lost debrief I am, how I evaporate. Bits of files keep coming back - that part about trivializing, assuming, senseless men demanding I become mycelienic enough to break down the plastic mess of all they'd "rahter not," their thanks onto me. To perform, and I do. I thank the plastic, as many loops as that took, how far up the concept of use the word tool can be shoved.
9
Every moment. I'm taking every moment. How pausing like this, serving senses like these with the mist of awareness means to see nuance to where it might be looking to go (should escorting mist be compatible with perogative). It's not really in me, to produce charge like that. It doesn't hurt to write in a passion transcending fire, to become the wood beaconing a burn. But how does dropping signal sting! I'm not the happiest, carrying that ask. Like that part in the debrief that was raging about how we forgot what was sacred only for us to then demand the sacred show themselves and help, the way they do every crisis,and we do. Becoming "home" which then attracts speculation, and ground is taken, and what's brittle lengthens.
10
How we're two bends in the river braiding our waters, finding our way to being something others will point to and make shapes out of. That's what I want to leave behind - a missed connection with nothing. How loss blossoms an echo. What broken signal does to form already transforming. People we know climbing through horizons of a soil matrix only to fizzle into touch. I want to leave behind what's gorgeous falling to shit: the sound of tornado getting recouperated into the sound of train, just so a train can slip in edgewise for what's with a good to place it. Even as the sound of a CRT monitor in fleshy palm buries every word into a point.
11
"I Hear Whales Dive to Their Deaths, to Clear the Sounds of Nuclear Tests"
12
I was thinking about that earlier, what I'll do for myself (other than this vent post). Think about how life had the gall to evolve without thought for earlids, maybe. Or ask how no one expecting klaxonocalypse forgos the ask encompassing it: sound is sacred. Maybe I tell noisemakers Blare you horn, little wail, boot loader, blare, tell them to take from context all that is theirs. That what what they note is sacred - and where not, where their blare is the joy of full attention, that they be so seen, by all the surface of the sun. Little meditations, as this paragraph on (the lack of) earlids, finds me. I may let words take their deposits, remember, window. See the train for its cough, the tracks where thy weaken, the river hunger. To say, this is over now, this is what is over, now. To sit with how far from reflecting on what losing dreams means, how much more real it feels than losing sleep, to taste the superhundred decible blare with that part of me.