Mar 4
Nothing feels all that serious. I am constantly tempted to disrupt the script and space out.
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Nothing feels all that serious. I am constantly tempted to disrupt the script and space out.
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Oil paint on canvas, 2024. The caverns in my dreams.
Writing Like I'm 15 Again
I know I'm supposed to write about this so I have to start. Don't want to lose the benefit of the grief. What's the point of everything falling apart if you don't get something to write about? Useless, I tell you, useless this rage in my heart. Useless this endless line of pity that I feel for myself.
Okay for a moment and then wracked again with a remorseless wave of despair. To lose all hope: despaired of reaching shore safely. To be overcome by a sense of futility or defeat. I cried for days. I am crying every minute of every day. These are the hot tears of lost words; of lost of loss of everything.
I switched the ring to the other hand and now it won't come off. It fit much better on the other hand. I couldn't sleep with it on and I couldn't get it off. I rolled over for hours upon hours. I've never been a light sleeper. I laid there fitfully as the neighbors had long, gentle sex. I tried to shower to wash off the feelings but they persisted. Apparently they're resistant to soap.
Nevertheless, I seem to resemble myself far more than I have over the last happy years. Apparently I forgot that life is nothing but sorrow and suffering. Now I remember oh so well. I feel truthful 15 years old again. I feel that same existential realization of the true awfulness of life which stunned my less developed mind and left me the piece of shit that I became for so long.
Maybe not a total piece of shit, but maybe still. I might just try and grow up, once and for all. It sounds nice to be grown up in a way that nothing ever hurts. The numbness of age and thick skin. Cover my body in callouses and my mind in iron. Heart? Forget having a heart. I'll cut it out and live happily without it. Bliss of no-feeling, automatic locomotion. I'll persist and forget it all.
I love the way that Faulkner writes about the verb of thinking as a noun, in a way that encompasses so much more than just a procedural description. It is a combination of so many things; memory, remembering, nostalgia, regret, epiphany, action; a constant temporal blend of past and present. I think the futural aspect of thinking might not have found it's way in to his term, but it is there, whether it is for Faulkner or not. The projection and the culmination of thinking propels us into the future. Of course, an object of thinking is the future, right? At least functional thinking. Perhaps that is a problem in my own life, where there is a lack of upward and outward directiveness in my thinking. I have plenty of thoughts on the past and present but so few about the future. Perhaps it is simply a lack of imagination, since the future is the realm of imagination. It is that unique crystalization of will and possibility. Possibility. I wrote a lot about that somewhere and now I can't remember where; a failure of thinking. Oh well, maybe I'll find it and throw some more thinking up here. I thought this was going to turn into an existential diary entry, I'm kind of glad it didn't totally. Or maybe it did.
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