Notes from Elysian Fields

Time is beginning to slip from my grasp and I wish it would. I feel shipwrecked, washed ashore on an island of many strange things. Where I am coming from, while still held in the back of my mind - I know I came from somewhere and that that means something to me - recedes like a distant shore. Who am I? I keep meaning to ask this question, as if I am supposed to or as if the question itself gives me meaning, and yet... And yet, I no longer have confidence that the answer will render any satisfaction, for me or for anyone else.

I am strange in an even stranger land. I am Elsewhere, a physical outpost on the shores of the mind. No stranger to exploration, some of the textures here are familiar to me: the symbolic overtones the flora and fauna dancing in sync with the wind that blows gently behind me regardless of where I turn, the multiple layers of meaning and intent and interpretation. "Did I just say that?" Or perhaps it was already said and it took a train whistle to make it clear.

An Outpost of the Mind. An Inpost? Postings from a post. Posting from the edge of what is possible. Mind is impossibly big, there is no way to escape it, really. Hard to step far enough away from it to get a clear picture of it: "Oh, look, there it is!" That's a funny one. Everything that exists exists within Mind. Which is to say that things don't exist, in the sense of existing as separate entities outside of thought. Thoughts are things and things are thoughts. (Worlds 1 and 3)

I think it might be possible to track this game through the jungle of things here on the island of the day before. Perhaps there is a way to record a foray into this thicket of mind so overgrown with accumulations. I will do my best to capture an image of intuition, a glimpse of thought in this Zone of shadows, before I inevitably become a thought myself.