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 start thinking about work or units. I know it’s an alternation of distractions, both of those things are distractions you know, but what am I really distracted from?
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, that’s just it. I don’t see any more point in being unstable.
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
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.
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.