Text and psychoanalysis.

In moments of stagnation and despair I turn to you, my fantasy, your free part that is in direct contact with me and lives in me. I sit down to write and it is akin to free associate on the couch at the psychoanalyst, this is my psychoanalysis. My art was my refuge and my place of freedom, where I is who I is. Here I also not easy to be. This life gets stuck in my head, accumulate enough and then spilled on the laptop keyboard a stream of self-consciousness in its simplest version, unedited life, in the form in which my experience and imagination exist in me, in front of merciless destruction in this world, woven from the bad roads and the sounds of hammers, pecking the concrete wall. Every time I don't know what to write and every time I write. This is not the subject of my concerns is the question of who I am. Answering him, I carry his thoughts far ahead of yourself and look at them from the side, treading the stage of occurrence of consciousness out of me through the eyes and back. It's so exciting to think of yourself as the source of his real life experiences, his fingers tapping on the keyboard a secret code unknown to anyone, opening myself something invisible and inaudible, to what can be within just what you can never touch without writing this. This is unimaginably sad and great at the same time.
When you write, you can feel the touch of something more to myself, as if I omitted a kind of revelation which is by no means peculiar to me, as if I really just a tool to transmit information to the world. Just a tool and nothing more. Just at some moment of life I feel that I need to sit down and write, and I really don't know what I'll write, I'm just like an animal obey the seasonal rhythm goes and does what needs to be done. There's something in this world beyond my understanding, it does not need advertisement and representations, it does not need my opinion or criticism, it just is, and it does not need exactly me, why not tell me. I have a feeling that this fills my "spirit" is eternal, and I'm just the vanity creates a vibration, thinking that I spread them around, but vibrate it, not me, I tremble from the passage of the vibrations of the spirit through me.
Write – so out of himself, to see how stuff comes out, whose existence you were not even aware, to feel this direct access to the unconscious and to feel it dull and incomprehensible spirit, enveloping your consciousness and as if leaving a piece of it can only to witness this Grand escape from the depths under the supervision of the immobilized guards. I just watch what comes out of me, the essence of what was once the perfect "strange". Can't say that now I became something understandable, I just watch how it comes and goes on its way, I keep it and not send, I just give him the opportunity to escape and go out into the world. Why would he go there I don't know, and don't know why I go there. Perhaps his example, I will be able to find a guide, like a map pointing the way, but what is it to me if the card itself is strange and unknown and the path is specified it will equally lead me all the same to me, because I am that way.

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