The kind of cloudiness that comes from despair has no triumph in description.
Identities are meaningless, though they would tell you it’s the beginning of the solution.
To live alone is not a bitter pill or a stoic honor, but a consignment best embraced for the time.
Sometimes I am terrified of that notion, or that I have embraced it for too long.
I just am and though I have created enough weight from shame to press newspapers, it is mine to leave.
There is no trick to living; it is a simple competition against nothing.
Some are justly content with being nothing; others crave insatiably to be something which is nothing to those around them. In finding truth, the insatiable cravers seem to come out ahead in the real world. They work to forget and forgetting allows them to keep working.
In living as an escape artist, I have been able to study those who truly live. My life is not attractive to them and theirs is a mystery to me. Yet we coexist and tolerate one another. I will find life more than a terrifying set of inescapable circumstances and they will visit me on their bad days.
Someday we will both arrive at the end and realize how many tools each of us lacks. Walking into the dark and hoping to see those we found here smiling to greet us naked in the sense of facilitators to our hiding, but clothed in something we will find much more durable.
This is what we hope for and forget and cling to and forsake at trivial transactions throughout our days and nights. There is an inescapable power in this reality that is either grasped and lifts, or destroys us to degrees.
I am a fool to many things that would save me from myself. I can’t describe those things acutely, however they breeze past me overhead and on my sides and below me, but on occasion strike me with pain to the extent that I am not pliable.
So I find Someone to live for. If I forget that, I am doomed to myself. If I choose someone else, I am doomed to them. I can choose to serve others and even love them and sacrifice, but if I live for them I will die to them. That is the fear in me. That I will die and never realize what has happened until they leave. Everyone leaves someday. Perhaps that is the giving up I need to learn sometimes.
Writing this is not attractive, it’s alienating and precocious, but it’s what I have today. Not all I have though.
I have a room full of clothes and a couple boxes full of accumulated ornaments and distractions. And monuments to things I’ve learned or people I’ve loved. I have notebooks full of regrets and life longings and simple ideas that serve as mile markers to my growth from naïve to still naïve, but a smidgen more aware of the fact.
Forget those things. The inward journey quit halfway through is a diver’s nightmare. He’s seen a glinting, taunting him through the water, dimly lit by a tiny headlamp. Drink deep or taste not the Pierian spring.
The peaceful spirit grants me something to hold on to; a promise that it’s still down there. He lets me know that I can live a life between dives that isn’t worthless. I say I don’t know, but really it’s a gasp for air when I’ve lost sight of what I’m looking for.
And then I am released from that question. Refreshed and content without answers though I know they lie below and someday I shall see as if there were no water and I needed no air.
Identities are meaningless, though they would tell you it’s the beginning of the solution.
To live alone is not a bitter pill or a stoic honor, but a consignment best embraced for the time.
Sometimes I am terrified of that notion, or that I have embraced it for too long.
I just am and though I have created enough weight from shame to press newspapers, it is mine to leave.
There is no trick to living; it is a simple competition against nothing.
Some are justly content with being nothing; others crave insatiably to be something which is nothing to those around them. In finding truth, the insatiable cravers seem to come out ahead in the real world. They work to forget and forgetting allows them to keep working.
In living as an escape artist, I have been able to study those who truly live. My life is not attractive to them and theirs is a mystery to me. Yet we coexist and tolerate one another. I will find life more than a terrifying set of inescapable circumstances and they will visit me on their bad days.
Someday we will both arrive at the end and realize how many tools each of us lacks. Walking into the dark and hoping to see those we found here smiling to greet us naked in the sense of facilitators to our hiding, but clothed in something we will find much more durable.
This is what we hope for and forget and cling to and forsake at trivial transactions throughout our days and nights. There is an inescapable power in this reality that is either grasped and lifts, or destroys us to degrees.
I am a fool to many things that would save me from myself. I can’t describe those things acutely, however they breeze past me overhead and on my sides and below me, but on occasion strike me with pain to the extent that I am not pliable.
So I find Someone to live for. If I forget that, I am doomed to myself. If I choose someone else, I am doomed to them. I can choose to serve others and even love them and sacrifice, but if I live for them I will die to them. That is the fear in me. That I will die and never realize what has happened until they leave. Everyone leaves someday. Perhaps that is the giving up I need to learn sometimes.
Writing this is not attractive, it’s alienating and precocious, but it’s what I have today. Not all I have though.
I have a room full of clothes and a couple boxes full of accumulated ornaments and distractions. And monuments to things I’ve learned or people I’ve loved. I have notebooks full of regrets and life longings and simple ideas that serve as mile markers to my growth from naïve to still naïve, but a smidgen more aware of the fact.
Forget those things. The inward journey quit halfway through is a diver’s nightmare. He’s seen a glinting, taunting him through the water, dimly lit by a tiny headlamp. Drink deep or taste not the Pierian spring.
The peaceful spirit grants me something to hold on to; a promise that it’s still down there. He lets me know that I can live a life between dives that isn’t worthless. I say I don’t know, but really it’s a gasp for air when I’ve lost sight of what I’m looking for.
And then I am released from that question. Refreshed and content without answers though I know they lie below and someday I shall see as if there were no water and I needed no air.
