2018-12-18 - 8:11 p.m.
I can tell what season it is out there. In her consciousness, rather. Well, and also in the larger "empirical reality." It is difficult to know how to refer to the various layers of metaphysical activity from here. But I do know that I was idly watching ("watching" being the closest analogy I can make for the process by which I observe) the striated flashes of white light chugging along her synapses, and suddenly I found myself thinking of a Christmas tree (inasmuch as the personification of thought can be said to "think"), and then I was thinking of Christmas tree lights, and in particular of Christmas tree lights constructed to blink at regular intervals, and since I have never actually seen a Christmas tree or Christmas tree lights (since I can't be said really to "see" in the way that the reader of these words imagines), I realized that she must be, herself, thinking about Christmas tree lights, and that it is probably therefore winter, which may also account for a certain uncharacteristically pronounced depressed mood I have been aware of lately, in the form of a sort of dramatic lighting, I guess you might call it, that has been washing through the frontal lobe lately.
There's not much I can do about it from up here. If it is indeed the holiday season, I suppose I can expect plenty of alcohol and sugar-related physiological gunk to shortly begin clogging the machinery, and I'm sure I'll be mopping up nostalgia for quite a while (figuratively speaking, of course, I do not "mop"). It's a pity. She was having some halfway decent thoughts just before this Christmas tree diversion. Nevertheless, I continue to do what I can to encourage her to abandon all attachments and sacrifice this trivia in order to devote herself entirely to what I alone offer (for everything else is, in a way, trivia). But of course, there is only so much of that that one can endure and still live. (But she has much more to endure, I believe.)
