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To The Rhythm of The Psychedelic Glass.


There was always something about being able to perceive the world through glass without participating that I found fascinating as a child. It was only later during my adolescence that I recognised this premise to be indicative of how I felt about my own existence. I often described it as not really being present in the room, in my own body, a harrowing sense of vacancy from my own self. I was always watching, advising, guiding, helping, being seen, but nobody was able to quite reach me because I was safeguarded behind layers of decadent glass. 


Coherently, this glass meant that I was always able to perceive my own reflection amongst the world outside, a kind of haunting overlay being projected over my conception of the universe. I eventually taught myself how to ignore and divert attention from it, I separated my being from the things that I could see but I somehow lost touch with my reflection along the way. I forgot what I looked like, could no longer recognise my own face. I studied the lines on my palms, questioned whether they belonged to me. All I saw was the world, people going about their daily lives as I desperately tried to be present in the room. It was difficult because I could not feel the things that I wanted to feel, I was a ghost trapped in a state of purgatory trying to barter my way back to earth. I heard stories, listened to other people’s minds rotating on the peak of their skeletal axes, but I could not feel the cadence of my own pulse. I was able to map out the architecture of the skull but did not know where mine resided. 

I suppose it paid off because something inside me inevitably shifted and my mind gradually crept back into my body. I'd like to say that I'm more in control and aware now, and whilst my brain and limbs are in the process of reconciling, I still feel the presence of the glass more than ever before. Having said that, I see the things that many do not and it's a strange gift that I wouldn't possess otherwise. When I find myself feeling sad, I sit at my window and remember. 

The glass, I suppose is a gift and a curse.

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