My tear ducts are feeling clogged.
But I’m holding on to the memories we still have to make
I was close to being scared that time.
I’m sorry that you can’t take a joke.
I’m expected to do something and after a certain point all I want to do is lie. Lie there and stare at the ceiling and sometimes the stars, trying to fit them altogether in my mind, figuring out the purpose they have on me, vice-versa, and the hypothesis. When I’m supposed to be working on homework or what I still call units, I lie, until when I realize the futility all those imagery bring, I...
I promised to never fall again until I met you
I’m there, but I’m not really there. I’m here, mirror.
Work hadn’t been wasted after all - although w/o exclamations of pleasure, or even positive pressure, even w/o noticeable expression of peculiar sense of satisfaction
This last remark had been motivated by pride. It still was miraculous to me that I had attempted anything so daring & had succeeded. I searched my soul.
I cannot bear too much reality.
I had a swift vision of my own monumental silliness, of how infantile & undignified I probably would have seemed in the eyes of that particular rational observer.
I wondered what time it was.
Later for them. Right now I didn’t have enough time.
I like people participating in my fantasy life & I’m usually willing to particpate in theirs, up to a point.
What I really wanted, I realized, had been reduced to simple safety. I thought I had been heading towards it - something - all these months but actually I hadn’t been getting anywhere. And I hadn’t accomplished anything. At the moment my only achievement seemed to be my fantasy. That was something I could hang on to.
I’m moving on. I was. I don’t know. Some would say of course that it’s all in my mind. I know that, but how do I get it out? They tell me I live in a world of fantasies. But at least mine are more or less my own, I choose them & I sort of like them, some of the time. Maybe I should see a shrink. But then again they’d only want to adjust me. But i want to be adjusted,...
I wonder why they like throwing things around all over the landscape.
Cleaning: a sense of purpose.
No, I don’t want to. you aren’t an escape anymore, you’re too real. Something’s bothering you & you’d want to talk about it; I’d have to start worrying about you and all that, I haven’t time for it.
You shouldn’t expect me to do anything. I want to go back to my shell. I’ve had enough so-called reality for now.
There was no real reason to explain because explanations involved causes & effects & this event had been neither. It had come from nowhere and it led nowhere, it was outside the chain.
The knowledge was an icy desolation worse than fear. Or fever. No effort of will could be worth anything here.
I realized I had tricked me into contradicting myself.
I had only an imperfect idea of what I had just done & no idea at all of what I was going to do next.
What’s the matter with me? He’s only a genius who had become an unknown quantity.
I was feeling like a child’s wheeled wooden toy being pulled along by a string, but I didn’t know on what grounds, moral or otherwise, I could base refusal.
I one day resigned myself to the necessity of endurance.
I had turned into what I was going to be. It wasn’t that I wanted to change places with myself; I only wanted to know what I was becoming, what direction I was taking, so I could be prepared. It was waking up in the morning one day & finding I had already changed without being aware of it that I dreaded
It was a faint hope - surely my feminist friend wouldn’t be able to offer any concrete suggestions - but at least she would listen.
If I told you you would only be dismayed without understanding.
And what I need is not a cure but a prevention.
Nip the problem in the bud, Bud.
They say whatever causes the behaviour, it’s the behaviour itself that becomes the problem.
I had that once, but I lost it. Abnormally normal sanity.
They spent so much time fussing about my identity that I really shouldn’t have had to bother with it myself at all. In the long run they ought to make it a lot easier for me to turn into an amoeba. At last I know what I really wanted to be! An amoeba. Amoebas: immortal, shapeless & flexible sort of. Being a person is getting too complicated.
What I have in mind is something quite revolutionary. Though then again people get much too narrow, too narrow, they’re specializing too much, that makes one lose sight of a lot of things.
But my mind holds the key, just like honey holds the fly.
A reflection story of a time that’s lost will be told whenever I grow old.
One day I’ll ride the lightning, although public transportation is easy.
I doubt I’ll finish tasks early today, but it’s ok. Excuse me now I’ll be late. Good things come to obsessive-compulsive, which fixate…
So anyway I made a lot of attempts but I refused to commit myself, you can’t say that by the end of that time period I have reached anything that can be definitely called maturity. Immemorially-ancient but vast fast-vanishing history. And of course there’s the obsession with time, clearly a cyclical rather than a linear obsession.
They’re all too literary, it’s because they haven’t read enough books. They sort of get limp and sinuous and passionate, they try so hard, and I start thinking oh my it’s yet another bad imitation, a pretension of whoever it happens to be a bad imitation of, and I lose interest. or worse, I start to laugh.
Well of course it’s not you. It’s me neither. It’s just it.
Sometimes I think I’d like to live forever. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about time anymore. Ah, Mutabilitie; I wonder why trying to transcend time never even succeeds in stopping it… Then again what’s wrong with death?
I would be safe; but what I really felt to fear was the distortion, not of anything in particular; though who would be destroyed/streaked by whom, or why, I couldn’t tell, and most of the time I was surprised at myself for having such vague premonitions.