“DID I REALLY WRITE THAT?” Sometimes I write something, which is purely deductiv

“DID I REALLY WRITE THAT?”

Sometimes I write something, which is purely deductive, and it’s just the result of following some arc of logic; And, then, I look at it and I say “Wow. That’s brilliant. I am not smart enough to write that. Did I really just write that down? On my own?”

I can’t figure out if I love these moments or fear them. Because the part of me that constructs those arguments is… it’s, mechanical. It’s not ‘me’ in any sense of the word. I sort of question whether “I” am present at all. The “I” is merely an observer of a scene writing down what he sees. The construction of the scene is happening almost entirely without by willful direction. Its like dreaming. But dreaming logic. I’m watching the dream. But I’m not sure who or what is constructing it other than some involuntary feedback loop in memory.

Strange. Frightening. Beautiful.