Hiccup.

Self styled thoughts as if designed to please pump out of a machine without relief and exude but grace in the viewing glass wherever eyes may go: maybe I’m just psychotic, but assuming there is a separation between the two, the mind has a knack of pleasing the soul like clockwork. However, despite a homegrown air and mood of expectability with consciousness in general, it will surprise a person sometimes with cacophony: intrusive thoughts for example. And the phenomenon known as thought insertion sometimes strikes as well: something that I as a schizophrenic of all people have never experienced. Both intrusive thoughts and thought insertion are items of food aversion if the soul consumes what it sees and it behaves in equilibrium. Like I saId I don’t get either. But I get something. I hate it but I understand it because I’ve survived it enough times already to know what it means, so I don’t fret upon a choppy stretch of the stream anymore; I surrender to the current because I trust it will lead me to nowhere disastrous and sure enough it doesn’t. I get right back on track when it’s done. Usually won’t even lose my place. It comes, it leaves, it’s gone — as fast I can say it. It’s undramatic. It’s like chest discomfort after an energy supplement or plane turbulence when flying a cheap airline: although plane crash statistics dictate that when you fly you have a one in million chance of dying, on the flip side it’s something innocuous, coincidental and not the expression of a serious consequence.


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