Introspective physiology

I have observed that my life can be reduced into long and empty intervals of time separating heart breaks. I have equally observed that during those heart breaks, my body can be reduced to a few organs, namely a nose, a larynx and a heart that Biology must have always confused with lungs.

I am vaguely aware of anything besides the air entering my nose and flowing to my lungs or heart through the larynx as I breath my present existence. More precisely, I sense an infinitely thin thread puncturing my larynx all the way to my heart. More than a piercing in my heart, I feel an entanglement possibly by the very thread therein.

An invisible weight hibernates at the bottom end of my heart as if chained with and suspended from the thread entering my larynx. No matter how hard I inhale or how much air I try to fill my lungs with, I feel a lack of oxygen as if there was a hole in my lungs (or heart). While the hole hypothesis is ridiculed by science, I adopt the alternative hypothesis claiming that my lungs must be filled with tiny men breathing my oxygen into their own lungs, that are perhaps filled fractally and recursively with tinier men and so on and so forth (see below). The lack of oxygen induces an inner pressure that is often unbearable and analogous to an ever-going implosion.

Heart breaks are not only the product of  personal relationships but a myriad of existential events and encounters such as personal, professional, and intra-personal achievements, disappointments and life-decisions. Personally and professionally, I have put my heart on the (thin) line separating arts from science and that very life-decision, with all its bells and whistles, exhibitions and conferences, ups and downs, breaks my heart chronically.

But how much worse are those long and empty time intervals with pointless invisible walls and no notions of time and space? When not heart broken my perception is perhaps more pathetic as my self is extended and contained in all that I see. I become all I see with my eyes and imagine in my third eye that is including the people, animals, places..etc around me and those not around me. The latter might defy the laws of physics, however, it is known to science and to most men that we are all made of atoms and more universally even sung with a twist of wording towards us coming from stardust. All this empty wholeness makes me feel as if my heart was floating in liquids of unknown substances and unpredictable properties. This puts me under more pressure and makes me anxious to the point of desiring what is to eventually break my heart, over and over...

Non sum qualis eram, A new monologue about neophilia

I often hate myself, my kind and all that resembles me until I change into something else to eventually hate, out of neophilia.

I open the fridge for consolation by all these items therein that are unlike myself. I pick an apple that hardly resembles me in anyway though studies have shown we have more than 70% of our genes in bananas. Whether we can compare apples to bananas or to humans is of no importance since once I eat the apple, the apple becomes me. The rest of the apples would like to think vice versa. Nonetheless, that foreign body that I just ate became me and is no longer desired, the remaining apples are assured and may remain seated in the fridge.

I have nothing in common with chocolate but once it melts in my mouth we become one. I have become one with so many things that I am now many -- I think to myselves. The spell-checker annoys me to hell when it does not recognise myselves -- or should I rather introduce my selves, my very diverse selves?

The neophile keeps seeking novelty until neophilia ipsum becomes old. But what would then be the post-neophilia state?

The novelty of the novelty might be too meta for many yet many seek it whether they know it or not. I need a new kind of novelty, that similar to a second order differential equation in mathematics. I seek a novelty that can provoke my sense of existence, if any, and tickle my emotions and desires, if possible. It is like asking for a first-time heart-break but after having had many... Otherwise, is it too much to ask for the real-time visual perception of a fourth dimension?

Could lobotomy be the answer, I wonder to myselves. Perhaps auto-lobotomising one of my selves could bring a sense of renaissance to that old cranky mind of mine -- mind the mine.  Is marriage a form of lobotomy and to what extent?  For myselves, polygamy is more than justified. One for the artist of me, another for that scientist, and why not have one for that one typing this note... An accomplished Frenchman is putatively one with a wife and a mistress. Hence, wives and mistresses, it is!

La tercera dimension de un mundo que no existe