Today I got overwhelmed by an almost unbearable creativity. Creativity that almost intertwined with mere insanity. Dillusion: I seriously came up with the idea to change my hometown on facebook into Lagos, Nigeria after having talked me into some shit on a party some nights before. The old strategy: getting to know people, performing, entertaining, making oneself interesting. So as usual I pleaded for more lies and more hate, started up with a story that my grandpa was a Japanese emigrant in Chile, married in Santiago, fucked his wife lots, thus produced a child which herself emigrated to Nigeria, where she met her husband...blablabla...I'm a mix of it all. Evene started a blog on that:
http://nigerian-history.blogspot.com
Okay, all that seemed to have been a story until last week. But now since I stopped masturbating I more and more believe that. At least the obsession starts to grow and I feel the strong need to make that new lifestory more perfect, more round. I filled it with plausible details. Grandpa worked for Mitsubishi in the war, mum was a communist. I give myself two more weeks and I will be completely occupied with this idea. I won't even recognise my own parents perhaps. Who knows what's gonna happen. I already can feel the hazard this experiment is putting on me. Couldnt stop touching my dick while not writing on lifestories. Music played in loops for hours. Kino - Zakroi za mnoi dver. My flat reminds me on a madhouse - not that I've ever been in one. I laughed and laughed and laughed. Loops, loops, loops and more freaky ideas. Tried to put this semen in brain connected creativity into my thesis, but I'm really not sure if that worked. When writing it, the text looked completely normal and made sense - scientifically high value. I just overlooked it a minute ago though with a clear mind (masturbated one time, as today is the 10th, so according to the plan I was allowed to) and it was a sheer stringing together of the word pussy for almost six pages. I definitely can't hand this paper in and have to rewrite it one more time. At least I always spelled the word pussy correctly - maybe I just copied and pasted: frankly speaking I can't remember. And that's the scary thing. I was in a trance like state of mind, mixing up reality and stories, dreams and rational thinking. For the text outcome it was still worth it. I will publish the pussy essay as some sort of postmodern art or dadaism. Or is that art brut already? I mean, I was clearly insane, didn't know what I did - no connection or even intention to art.
At the end of the day the pressure was so goddamn big, I could not even stop laughing and talking insane shit. When midnight came I was prepared to get all that poisonous semen out of my body. It shot up with enormous power. tremendous! Less than a minute and I was free of this cage of delusion. Unfortunately I won't be able to repeat that after waking up. tragic! That means another day in desperation. But one day's gonna be fine - everything that comes up's gonna be scary.
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