And so I am just going to write and see what comes of it. An invitation into the night, into the mind spaces and the in-between places. Between one window of glowing light and the cathode ray signals I'm beaming out, or between mind and brain, between the fingers and my keys, perhaps that is where it really happens, mind and keys, fingers and keys, yes there's a dance going on, a dance I can't understand because (have you ever felt this way?) as soon as I think about it, I stop being able to type.
for a while.
THe way to keep myself functional functioning in motion is to keep myself from knowing what my hands are doing. IF not, I will steadily undermine all my own work with secret ninja thoughts sent by which half of my brain? the half that doesn't like me, sent to assassinate all my attempts to create something or be happy. I was happy in the midst of a sea of rain, I was happy floating in a dream somewhere beneath the pine trees, I was happy in my nest, in the soft warmth of silence, a cloudlike comfort, heavy and confining.
How do I keep myself conscious, when my instinct is to be ever wider, ever open, and embrace that which is most uncritical and free? I feel afraid, afraid to love too much, to be the firefly leaking sparks in every direction until I must fizzle out. It is uncontrolled, I am crashing and burning. And I like it. The hardest things for me are easiest for other people, and I will start with the basic premise they struggle with for their whole lives. Do I want to close down? There are people who could show me how, show me myself in the mirror if I wanted such things. What is the value of control? Learning it so you don't have to use it if you don't want to. Dammit, that means I should. It's a good thing there are counterterrorist cells in my mind, and spies and counterspies. Otherwise, I would have to make up far more for myself to do. IF I weren't self-sabotaging, imagine, I'd have to imagine a lot more. Have wizard's duels with people I met at the bus station. Not that I ever go to the bus station, but it seemed appropriately inappropriate. I am inappropriate. I laugh inappropriately. And I act this way when I'm sober. I act this way all the time. Do I act this way when I'm me?
How do I console myself, is feeling emotion just my indulgence, my bigger weakness, bitter, the emotions and the elements I'm drowning in, am i the vaguest Flower like the Little Prince's, not seeing anything in front of me, my reasons not making any but internal logic, what is my character's motivation? I worry somehow that metaphors fail me, and everyone else sees through being a hippie, they see in it something silly which escapes me. Perhaps I take myself too entirely serious when I should laugh, so that I do not laugh inappropriately as well as laughing inappropriately. In that case, and on that note, I will end this post by expressing the regret that I ate so many chocolates before bed. Though I cannot guarantee that such a thing will not befall me a second time. Temptation wiggles her fingers even now.
No comments:
Post a Comment