I am accustomed to nightmares, so much so that i am no longer discomposed by them. Rather a certain reassurances suffuses me with feelings of familiarity. I suppose i have a rather gothic imagination. It is an imprudent folly to allow the mind to indulge in these tenebrous ramblings. I embroider ,in my dreams, though presumably with conscious complicity, though i remain unaware of it, scenarios which meander, twist and turn with disproportionate rapidity. Because it is a flight of fancy it is unrestrained, untempered by salutary and expedient intercessions of rationality. But this flight from reason is most prepossessing.
I rarely read gothic literature. All my imaginings have been culled from fanciful reconfigurations of popular cinema. The tropes, a castle, a coffin, a woman in white with a lone candle are all imprinted firmly in memory. I reshuffle these mnemonics, sometimes as the centre of a nefarious situation amid them or in the periphery. More often than not i like to be a watcher by. I suppose propensities like mine were what Austen parodied in her novel Northanger abbey'. I am aware that my inveterate fantasies render incongruous my relationship with what is deemed to be reality. I have ceased to respond to shibboleths of common sense and reason not because they are inimical to my inner life but because the reality i traverse partakes of these dimensions. They are subterranean, though and inconceivable to prosaic minds.
It might seem anomalous, though not altogether inconceivable, that my admixture of self consciousness and immersion might betoken to a reconcilement of dichotomies that are severed and disjointed. But it is precisely in the blending and mingling of these putatively disparate realms that i find my apotheosis. Psychologists often adumbrate that the gothic is the landscape of the unconscious mind. Might not my veracity to my unconscious evince an authenticity to myself which refutes the expostulations of unreality that often striate me with reproachful intimations of an overstimulated imagination. Besides the imagination partakes of reality so an assumption of its irrecoverable sundering from commonsense seems apocryphal to me.
As the aforementioned account demonstrates i am possessed of sufficient intellect, sufficient to obviate the misattribution of schizophrenia . We are creatures of imagination. While it is sagacious to check an unrestrained submergence it is equally foolhardy to suppress every sanguine impulse, withhold every consciousness of iridescence which might, if pursued assiduously, be a revelation. We all need an inner life, an inner being. It is the spring that nourishes us, sluices our unimaginative repressions by dappling them with inwardness, sustains and buoys during a lonesome night. And might not the gothic, with the concatenation of entrapment, subsumption and release it embodies be a similar form of transcendence. I alluded to nightmares earlier but they are resolvable and end in sanguinely affirmative ways for me. At any rate given the specificities of the gothic hinterland and its exiguous tropes i still manage multitudinous permutations. So while i manufacture my fantasy i watch with delight the accoutrements it dons of its own volition.
Reality, mediated by a circumscribed human consciousness, is incompensatory at the best of times. The gothic is my reprieve.