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# Oceanic Feeling & The Interior of God
On a misty day, you can hear the wind howl slowly, seeing the leaves fall from trees and distant conversation, those are the days filled with what we may call an **“oceanic feeling”** this term, apparently coined by a psychologist writing letters to Freud, is a near perfect phrase to describe the feeling of cosmic awareness or rather, the interior of god. In a sense, we become more aware in specific environments, that we are apart of a whole, a system bigger than we can explain or understand. This feeling for some of us, can be the source of a wondrous oppression, a defeat by the world that keeps us- an awareness of a hidden mother.
Oh my darling little fool.
slowly the little doll burns in the fire, flames consume all her dreamless nights. Have you become the doll? Have we become the flame?
crawling, spineless, spiders
update, that note account has been deleted for privacy reasons, of course i can never make up my mind on how much i really wish to connect to cyberblank.neo but in the end i always end up with less compared to more. this is my first entry in a while, apologies for that but i have been busy with daily life. recently i have finished two books, one being a massive 630 pages, i plan to actually list these in the archive today, cyberblank.neo.
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montage alaska
I have made an account on Note, a japanese blog site, where I will keep some short writings and such things. I may possibly post some entries like a journal but I am somewhat unsure at the moment. I hope to become more active on this site but I currently have lots of free time and thus have been busy with other things outside of writing. I hope to make this version of cyberblank.neo a much more efficient space for my thoughts. I have linked the note account in the side bar. I will add a new archive page for the books i have been reading and films I have watched thus far, as I did on the previous version of this site. thank you.
anchors.
I think it is more important to write than to read. At least, for those that need release rather than ingestion. I must say it is tempting all the time to reach and caress those pages, to smell the years that have past and surround myself with those bodies of silent sentences. I have done so since I was a young girl, taking them from where I could and placing them around the empty corners of rooms, like an impenetrable fortress of some sensual nature. When I put it that way, I suppose it sounds more like an intimate affiliation rather than a true interest, doesn’t it?
I have tried to overcome the feeling, to see them for what they really are, but that is truly what they mean to me. For me, they have always been there- books lining the walls like soft anchors, indifferent and unchanging. I liked it that way then and I like it that way now. They don’t change no matter how beat up they get, the words become murky beneath the dust and age gets between all the little details, some strange eternal mortality.
Above all else, those kinds of things are my favourite in this world.
If it isn’t too odd to say, it might be better for me, to avoid reading them at all. I find it is merely an addition to a previous feeling, I hardly come across a book that is better on the inside than out.The smell of the decades that have past, the dull grit to their pages, that is what I like most-that after even a century, those books could sit in silence and breathe in the dust of midnight.
I’m comforted by knowing that books will not think different of me for my lack of interest on what is inside them, a truly passive eye in time.I treasure the handful of them that were both godly and ordinary. The ones that said something interesting to me, all the while comforting me with the reminders of age.
l o o m
A sin moves in the mud,
breaks the bone of the righteous
settles the dusk into the night.
o my darling dance,
come forth from inside your shell
Myths in the modern world.
Joesph Campbell- Today we are not well met with the literature of spirit.
I agreed with this fully, the modern man and his view of literature is evasive generally but specifically in regards to the spirit, we are fully unaware of what lies beneath the skin of the past.
It is not solely within the past that we find the spirit in hiding, we find this spirit within us and around us during dusk and twilight. I wish to find more of this dancing spirit, if not only through the whispers in dreams but also the hums of our old giants.
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Spoil and Rot
In the wake of our nightmare, we seize our visions in haste and hope with such desperate pleads to keep them in our womb. They fly as paper ghosts into the eternal hall of slumber.
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The summer has been warm and I have been learning as best I can the words I need to communicate here. Things have been slow and calm and I feel my palm opening at the sight of the simple life
Blood from the vein
succumb from the smoke,
forbidden hills and altered fang.
We are the oil of thy beloved machine and we are the sickness that rots within.
Have you heard the songs from the weeping tree?
Hath thy tree heard your whispers?