...that life is but a dream and we are just an imagination of ourselves...

I've been reading Borges again, and working on a philosophy essay (on Plato's theories of forms and such), and eating some monkey flesh, and this got me to thinking, (well, not that hard, but you know), about reality and other such stuff. I was thinking about how language influences our perception of reality (the Inuit have several hundred words for saying 'snow'), but that's not my main point. This entire year has been somewhat illusory, as though I'm not really learning or doing anything, as if I'm walking through a dream. I'd be more coherent if I didn't write a math test last night (at 7:30 at night damnit!) and I'm still somewhat shell-shocked, plus the philosophy essay I'm working on (as previously mentioned), and a sociology paper ( the proposal is due sometime before December, I should really bother into finding out, oh, and choosing a topic, narrowing it down to a thesis and so on and so forth, that I can present in a week or two or something like that.) Anyway, if you really want to be confused out of your head, I strongly suggest reading Borges' The Circular Ruins, and Tlon, Uqbar, Orbius Tertius, and The Immortal. Real illusory, thought provoking stuff, just take my word for it at this point I'll say something more when I can produce coherent sentences, although if you really want to be confused try Borges in Spanish, it loses and gains something in English that is somewhat clearer in Spanish. I think I might just go on to bed right now, good night.