I fantasize some experience before the fall into metaphor, before the conceptual machinery re-started. My dreams are windows into that world. They look out through glass, or some watery film, on a world unincorporated, a world with no boundaries. The dream is the borderland.

We are taken by the hand and led out of the darkness of night's womb, into the light of reality and they who lead us are the priests of reality. There is indeed a paranoia in this experience; the paranoid takes her/his fantasies seriously. I fantasize a malevolence in the teachers, in the spokespersons for the reality principle.

I am approaching a border to this experience. I do not know if it the same border that I crossed when this experience began. I cannot say that is was me who crossed that original border, but experience and metaphor tell me that there was a crossing. In this time/space where I now find myself, I find myself desiring to lose myself in metaphor. The metaphor is a borderland.

And so what is this writing? It is analysis by metaphor, an attempt to see where I am, metaphorically speaking. I can only say that I fell into this world of words; exactly when and how is always a matter of reconstruction from within this womb of words. Analysis is a perceptual process, an envisioning in four dimensions; it organizes the unorganized. Metaphor resists this translation of the many into "the whole that is greater than the sum of its parts." Metaphor insists "Thou art That." In the world evoked by metaphor there is no one, only many; there is "nothing made of parts."

So what does the analyst do when he/she confronts the recalcitrant metaphor? Freud incorporates the world of metaphor into the world of perception. The reality principle asserts the dominance of perception. But dominance is not victory and Freud was pessimistic concerning any resolution to this war between reality and the human unconscious.

There is, in my experience, a resistance to this dominance of the reality principle, a resistance to the insistence that all experience is conceptually produced, to the faith that, in the absence of perception, there is only the void. Perhaps metaphor does not originate in the conceptual process but in imagination; perhaps imagination is original.

I have no memory of experiencing transcendence. I have always, in my awakened state, inhabited a space of time. The geometry of my experience is synergetic, or, a geometry of narrative. Any experience of the other is, for me, a dream. Each morning I move from dream into narration, and each I night I return to dream. That is, insofar as I can recount it, the sum of my experience, and this very small sum is the subject/object of these investigations.

My awakening never feels pure; it seems always infected with dreaming. The desire to dream never vanishes, nor does the desire to tell the story; it is a question of dominance. But I know that this wheel of experience will, for me, cease to turn. I can only speculate, based upon the small sum of my experience, as to whether experience is, in the absence of the wheel.