Thinking Clearly While Falling Apart

What is your mission?

Fever Dreams

This book was written during a period when sleep stopped behaving.

Nights lost their edges. Mornings arrived without permission. Time collapsed into something viscous and unreliable. Thoughts no longer lined up in sentences; they arrived in fragments, sensations, impressions. Logic—once dependable—loosened its grip. And in that unraveling, something unexpected surfaced: a form of clarity that did not announce itself with arguments, only with felt truth.

Fever Dreams was born in those liminal hours—when exhaustion stripped away performance and left only what could not be faked. When the mind, too tired to maintain coherence, finally stopped interfering. I did not understand more in those moments. I noticed more.

This book is not about healing as progress. It resists the familiar arc of breakdown followed by breakthrough. Instead, it examines altered states as teachers in their own right. States often dismissed as dysfunction—burnout, dissociation, sleeplessness—are treated here as thresholds rather than failures.

There is an intelligence in the body that does not rely on explanation. When the mind exhausts its narratives, the body begins to speak more clearly. Through sensation. Through timing. Through an unedited knowing that bypasses language entirely.

Mysticism, in this context, is not decorative. It is functional.

Fever Dreams does not treat intuition as an aesthetic preference or spiritual affectation. It approaches it as a legitimate epistemology—a way of knowing that operates beneath cognition, beyond linear thought. One that cannot always be translated, but can often be trusted.

The book pays attention to what surfaces when we are too tired to curate ourselves. When ambition softens. When coherence collapses. When the question is no longer What does this mean? but What is happening in my body right now?

My mission with this work is simple but radical: to legitimize experiences that are routinely pathologized or dismissed because they resist neat explanation. To suggest that not all clarity arrives through control, and not all understanding is verbal.

This is not a romanticization of suffering. Collapse is not framed as desirable. But it is treated as informative. As an altered state that reveals what remains when the usual scaffolding falls away.

Fever Dreams is written for readers who suspect that their most lucid moments did not arrive during periods of composure, but during moments of unraveling. For those who have felt more awake while falling apart than while holding everything together.

If you recognize that kind of clarity—arriving sideways, unannounced—this book is not here to explain it to you.

It is here to sit with it.