With organisation of the masses comes regulation of the individual... Individual coerced into certain behaviours by collective force, he has all kinds of expectations, prejudices, and values, infecting the deepest substrata of his thought, that are not his naturally but are the suggestions of society. Society's expectations form an unbreakable hegemony, perhaps the hardest force in the world to resist. Values, ethics, morals, it seems their function is to obscure inequalities, to conceal unfairness.
Social organisation on a large scale entails coercion for the individual. There is something brutal about the idea of a nation state, something sinister about the notion of work as productivity, and that a permanent state.
The organisation and functioning of a given society, regardless of the political model it follows, must always entail a degree of force. Isn't majority rule a sort of violence against the individual?

Imagination as sleep. "Distracting me from my writing would be like rousing the dead from their sleep." Kafka. (paraphrase).
Writing for oneself: "The best things one writes are for oneself." Ginsberg.
The imagination sleeps and veritably dreams in the act of writing itself, which functions as a trance. Thereby the imagination casts itself upon an ocean of words, and may truly plumb the depths. I meditated on stillness and slumber, i let my story be a resting place for the imagination.
Therefore no more writing for others, to be popular, for friends, for a marketplace, to seem clever. When you begin to think, what if my friend, sister, hero reads this, you become self-conscious. The imagination is stymied and no depths are plumbed at all. My story becomes, once again, a resting place for the imagination, where it may wander and play at will.
Tools of the writer: pen n paper.
Hazards of the writer: excruciating loneliness, paralyzing isolation. Meaningless scribbles of the biro in the lonely room.
Personal faults: procrastination, never finishing anything, lack of faith. No productivity.
Why? Because to produce becomes sickening.

Finally end up not believing in the collective unconscious or collective anything. Humanity too diverse and heterogenous. Too much in dreams, too relative, diffuse and personal.
That's how they're best dealt with too; any theory as regards dreams too much like an imposition.
As i get older i more n more distrust theory and systems imposed on life, any interpretation of phenomena not having its basis in the integrity of the self, fully flexible and accomodating, fluctuating according to circumstances. This is "truth" if there is such a thing.
To see the uniqueness of each thing, and yet how it fits in with a pattern with other things like it, not bending things to a rigid rule. See Machiavelli. Byproduct of all this though is an awful uncertainty, a messy unpredictability which might threaten to overwhelm.
To live free of systems, something of Zen in all this.

It is not that i project anymore into the future and worry about it, at least not the longterm future, it's more that i feel the weight of the present and past too keenly, like a sort of burden. This is like a sort of central theme, fundamental to everything i write, and yet at the same time, one one level it's definitely bland and banal, like discontent of one sort or another generally is.
If i follow strictly my own line of subjectivity, i come to the conclusion that truth is impossible, that words are meaningless, and at that point, if i'm being consistent, i have to fall silent.
Then again, what if it's more banal even than that, that the truth doesn't deserve to be expressed? What a predicament the writer is in when on page one he finds himself thoroughly disenchanted, disgusted even, with expression, if he finds description itself distasteful...

If everyone was like me, and every student, say, held such stuff, such secrets, inside, then the world could not go on functioning for any length of time. Something would have to give, and me and all my confusions are only a sort of microcosmic reflection of that, projected down, as it were, to an insignificant scale.
Art is refreshed and made more acute by a refusal to be objective, but objectivity is sometimes relieving. Maybe it's essential to a self-concept, to a knowledge of the self. Maybe no knowledge of the self, no self-concept, is entirely possible. I've dramatized my own identity issues into a sort of rationalized debate about subjectivity and objectivity, but really i'm not entirely convinced it's a valid argument, based as it might be on a false distinction, and really the only conclusion you can come to in the end (after all this speculation) is that there is no objectivity and there is no truth.
If you be subjective and act subjectively though, is you try being, as it were, fundamentally subjective, you soon run into problems. Chief among these is an absolutely crippling, and if not crippling then at least enfeebling, sense of isolation.