So, I’ve never tried to post anything before with intention of someone else seeing it, nor have I ever really told many people about this before. I guess because I forget about it a lot and it only happens sometimes but. I guess it could be considered a sort of glitch in the Matrix kind of thing? sixpenceee I thought you mind find this interesting, since you’re into neuroscience and such.
I’m going to front this by saying I don’t really believe in paranormal or psychic stuff. I’ve never really experienced anything like that and it’s just never really seemed plausible to me. But this thing I do sometimes seems kind of impossible and I’m not really sure how to explain it.
Sometimes I get what I’ve dubbed “pre-Deja Vu,” meaning that I will get the physical sensation of Deja Vu (that sort of zoomed out extreme awareness of everything that’s happening, and the sort of ‘blurred edge’ effect) except that what I see is not what’s in front of me. Usually it’s something I haven’t seen before, often with people I don’t recognize. I don’t want to call it a vision, but I guess that’s what it is. When I turn my head I can look around what I’m seeing, like you can with Deja Vu and recognize what’s happening. I can hear snippets of conversation and I’ll be aware of when it’s happening; I can think “wow I dunno who that is” or “what are they talking about?” And then it will end and I see everything that’s around me again.
It will happen in the middle of the day, never when I’m sleeping. And then, sometimes months or even a year later, I will have /literal/ Deja Vu of that moment. So I will experience that scene in real life that I somehow saw months ago.
The best example that I have that I recall the most vividly is from when I was still in high school, when I was a sophomore. I was in class and suddenly got that Deja Vu feeling and started seeing a scene that wasn’t there. It was a classroom in that school, but there were people sitting across from me that I had never met before. I remember looking left and right at the people there and listening to the conversation and thinking about how I didn’t know those people. I specifically remember the girl across from me. She had short dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and she was sitting at her desk eating something, if I recall correctly. Then the feeling of Deja Vu ended and I could see everything normally again.
I remember telling someone about it and thinking about it after it happened, so I don’t think it was something like normal Deja Vu and a fabricated memory of having actually seen it before, because I thought about it a few times after it happened and talked to a few people about it. And then I forgot about it.
Until my junior year in high school when I started IB and met a bunch of new people. I was sitting in Mr. Thompson’s class (I think it was TOK) and I looked across the room, and felt that Deja Vu. I looked to the right, and to the left, and I knew what Mr. Thompson was going to say, and what everyone was going to do. Across from me sat Vicky, a girl with short, dark hair, pulled back in a ponytail that I RECOGNIZED from when I “saw” her a year ago.
I had seen these people I had never met a year before I met them, and saw for a few moments what they were going to do and say, and then experienced it in real life. And that’s not the first time that’s happened to me either. It had happened before, and has happened a few times since. But for some reason that instance is the one I remember the most vividly.
I’m not really sure how it’s possible that I did that, and again, I really don’t believe in being psychic or anything like that so I really have no way to explain it. But the sensation is exactly like Deja Vu except what I see isn’t there, and it’s always something that I experience a while AFTER I see it for the first time.
My sister actually has the same thing except for her she always dreams what’s going to happen, whereas for me it’ll happen in the middle of the day when I’m fully conscious and doing stuff.
I killed an ant and I felt its body roll beneath my fingers and I wonder if it’s aware of the moment of it’s death. As the crushing force of my fingertips distorts its exoskeleton into unnatural positions, pressing its insides out of its hide, does it panic as it realizes its life is over?
The capacity to empathize prevents me from drowning spiders in my bathtub. I feel bad as I watch them struggle to reach for something, anything, to pull them from the death trap I’ve forced them to. I put myself in its place, drowning, frantically searching for a way out as eight glittering eyes watch me coldly from on high and turn the water up to wash me away.
Smooth jazz and lights on a steel table.
Was she born with it?
With her green eyes did it come,
Engrained in her skin
Engrained in her smile,
Arms looping around necks and words
Whispered close to ears,
All of them.
We make a marketing ploy out of the choices we make,
Everybody wants freedom,
Everybody wants to customize.
Yeah but, can I get it in white?
As if when maggots kiss your eyelids the color matters.
All flesh is the same to those who live from it,
To those who need it.
But was it with him when he first breathed?
As his knees touch his chest and he shudders to sleep,
Does he curl his body around the one thing that is eternally familiar to him?
They were face-to-face but they were separated,
Disconnected hands feeling
But they spoke together.
Was it there then, too?
The table shakes and teeth clip nails,
And everyone’s minds are elsewhere.
I thought about what mine is,
And if it’s with me still.
But then my fingers itch,
As you speak in such a way so as to perfectly mask the canker within you,
And my need arises.
Did we bring this on ourselves?
Or were we born to madly find anything to consider but this.
Woe is me
Who has something to do each and every day,
Something that I have wanted to do since I was small,
Yet now I find myself not wanting to do it
It’s too much work
For someone as economic as me.
It’s too difficult
I find the repetition
Something needs to be different,
A plot that needs to change,
But that requires a leap of faith,
A sojourn among the strange
I’m not sure I’m quite brave enough to try
This new fangled way
This ancient lullaby.
Can’t this just write itself?
Can’t these pages see?
I wish they could,
Because then perhaps,
They’d know what they want to be.
‘Cause I sure as hell don’t.
Pass your fingers between the valley of my ribs and speak directly into my heart, for I am there, and I listen, each drop of blood quickens for the breath to pass from between your lips and out.
I will take the air that spills with the palm of my hand and drink as though ambrosia were cupped there, and your breath would be in me, and your breath would be mine, and we would breathe together like the tide breathes over the sand and pulls the tiny grains out into the open sea, where they tumble, helpless but alive in the pulse of the wind and water.
Sink with me, to the dark places where secret creatures roam and there we shall remain, full of each other’s breath and the silence and the steady rhythm.
Put your hands over my ears and give me the ocean of your heart beat, and the calm silence of your storm.
It’s bizarre how, as children, we do our best to mimic adulthood. In the absence of our elders we strut and repeat things we’ve heard to sound important. We play house and dream of being able to finally grow up and do everything.
And yet now I pretend harder and harder that I’m still a child and in the face of having to make my own decisions and doing things I’ve dreamed of all my life.
Modeling my thoughts after someone I’ve never met because
I’m afraid my modes of communication are becoming rather dull.
A woman sitting on a train alone looking out the window,
The orange fabric standing out against the white seats while she sits and drinks in the light through the cracks in her make up through the cracks in her skin but
That isn’t my life right now.
A woman - a girl - curled on someone else’s couch with the air conditioner humming
It always hums
And the sounds of someone connecting, that tone reserved for only one, muted, but forever too loud.
His hands were on her legs his hands were on her stomach his eyes were in hers and I looked away but I saw everything. I couldn’t look away.
I hated him for the weight of her body on his legs and I hated her for his fingers on her skin and I hated them as I loved them.
I want to look at their happiness and share it without the crack in the screen. It makes their faces look strange and I can’t quite sympathize the way I mean to. I’m full of joy for I’m full of hatred for I’m full of I’m sorry I’m full of myself when I want to be full of something else
That was blatant but there’s water on the floor and I wish it was deeper,
If I press my eyelids to it I will descend until I touch and it will fill my ears and my mouth and my eyes and down into my stomach and it will fill me as you should and I won’t have to watch from the corners of my eyes and hate them for the rare ball of light they hold delicately in their hands.
[That’s pretty crazy.]
When is it my turn?
I’m suspended in this dark sea - it overflowed from the toilet seat and we still don’t know why - and I’ve been here for so long I don’t remember
Why does it seem like I’m always here for so much longer than every one else.
Probably because I can’t take my eyes and put them in someone else’s sockets and see.
I suddenly feel unbelievably, unreasonably tired. Everything about me is heavy, and a cigarette tip slowly burns a hole in my belly. I can see the smoke rise in the darkness, curling into wisping shapes before sliding silently through the ceiling.
She at once wanted to and abhorred the idea of doing something.
Laying alone with nothing but the stillness and the silence and the thoughts and the little itches that only creep up at night seemed too unbearable, and yet nothing else held sway over her fickle interest for longer than a few seconds.
Thus the time passed in a series of trial and errors, posit and denial, as the rest of the world went about its business. The trash went out and was collected. Someone somewhere is falling in love, someone else is making it, and surely, somewhere, someone is breaking it in tiny bits. Someone is dead, someone is dying, and someone is probably being born. Somewhere it is morning and she can’t imagine what that’s like.
Obviously it’s like day and night but it’s so terribly wrong, like a clock flipped upside down. Her brow furrows and she rolls between the sheets.
She’s glad she can’t actually feel the earth turning in space. She imagines if she could it would be accompanies by a low, slow, dull, tedious grinding noise. The kind you feel in your teeth and between your ears and in all your joints more than you actually hear it. Just the thought of it makes her jaw clench as she considers the constant visceral hum. Maddening.
It would be a continuous, hateful reminder that the entirety of existence doesn’t hinge on her well-being, that she is not as pivotal as she would like to believe, and often does.
No. Far easier to lay in bed with nothing grasping her attention drowning in the desire to do something, satisfied with her level of misery. All she can manage is to write down a sordid piece of autobiography, in the hopes that someone, somewhere, will think of her as a dearly suffering soul and so her life will have meaning and value based on factors completely out of her control.