It's after 2am. The T.V. is on and I'm not even watching it. When did silences start making me so nervous? Silences and the dark. I'm going to eco hell. I'm not sure what I'm afraid of.
I tire of the burden of making sense. I keep waiting for things to be neat in my head. They will not be. I'm swindling myself.
Life is not particularly reasonable. I'm scared of what will happen if I stop being scared of not making sense for at least as long as it takes me to put hand to laptop. If I just let go. If I just leap full-weight into the gumbo of memory and trauma. If I just tell my stories. If my thoughts quit stalling and finally get naked. What forces in me will be unleashed?
I'm a little bit embarassed about my recent posts, not because of my opinions, which I'm pretty sure are the same, but because they're about my opinions. Opinions are important but they seem so small once they're out of your head. And then you're just waiting to see who'll agree. Which is also important, but small. Everybody thinks this and that about everything. I'm so tired. I want to write about more than that.
People aren't their opinions, are they? The opinions are just clothes, and underneath a mysterious, miraculous body firing with thousands of simultaneous processes, histories, tics, insecurities, projections, terror. I'm more interested in that. I look at my son's face sometimes and I can't fathom it, how much design there is in that face, and how that compares to the anaemia of my thoughts.
If we could just look at each other like that, see that design, see that beauty and terrible vulnerability, what kind of world would it be, if we didn't see what people thought but what they were?
I tire of the burden of making sense. I keep waiting for things to be neat in my head. They will not be. I'm swindling myself.
Life is not particularly reasonable. I'm scared of what will happen if I stop being scared of not making sense for at least as long as it takes me to put hand to laptop. If I just let go. If I just leap full-weight into the gumbo of memory and trauma. If I just tell my stories. If my thoughts quit stalling and finally get naked. What forces in me will be unleashed?
I'm a little bit embarassed about my recent posts, not because of my opinions, which I'm pretty sure are the same, but because they're about my opinions. Opinions are important but they seem so small once they're out of your head. And then you're just waiting to see who'll agree. Which is also important, but small. Everybody thinks this and that about everything. I'm so tired. I want to write about more than that.
People aren't their opinions, are they? The opinions are just clothes, and underneath a mysterious, miraculous body firing with thousands of simultaneous processes, histories, tics, insecurities, projections, terror. I'm more interested in that. I look at my son's face sometimes and I can't fathom it, how much design there is in that face, and how that compares to the anaemia of my thoughts.
If we could just look at each other like that, see that design, see that beauty and terrible vulnerability, what kind of world would it be, if we didn't see what people thought but what they were?
