decay

i am perhaps, inconsistent. i am no stranger to contradiction, and in fact, i don't see it as an issue. in one breath, i can claim that all is void, and in the next, feel so swept away by an emotion that i cannot help but think that there must be some divinity to be found in willing anguish.

i went on a walk today, and i tried not to think about what the others saw when they looked at me. oftentimes, i think, i focus too much on what others are seeing in me that i forget to see, as a living being, myself. but as i passed the adults, children, and dogs, i began to feel as if i did not matter. but in a good way. i did not matter to these people, just as they did not really matter to me. such was the ideal relation. because when things start to matter, they become complicated.

if i was diagnosed with a terminal illness, what would i do? there is no death, truly, but i would still be faced with it. a phantom. maybe, i, too, would quit my life and become an artist. but there would be no world i leave behind anyways. in truth, it wouldn't really matter what i did at all.

i think, from time to time, it is good for me to be sad. i can't say i enjoy it, but it connects me back to the part of myself which... knows without knowing.

it is fitting that this winter season, which i escaped without being afflicted, i am still able to taste that bittersweet sadness which follows behind me like a chain, clasped to my ankle.

perhaps, it is not right for someone to be like me. for someone to feel so neutral all the time. happiness, is a given. sorrow, a gift. but only in sadness can i gaze into that which lies at the base of my being: a kind of impulsive rejection of negativity. it is like a pandora's box into which i confine all of these things which should be shared, but are not. no, it is not that they should be shared, they are being shared. the box, is not a box, there is no such thing.

the complex is actually not one, it is simple. and in simplicity we find that the fibers of our being sometimes pull on each other without taking our commands, and it is that impulse which commands me now, to write, almost as if i am not myself anymore. i am writing without thought...

without much thought at all.

perhaps, i am too paradoxical. can someone like me truly be happy? at least, i know i can be understood, and that is enough for me. i am the compass needle, laid afloat a glass of water, and ever so slightly twitching in relation to the changing magnetic currents which surround my being.

a story is being written, not by me, but on me, in me, and it hurts. such is the act of storytelling, because the canvas, the canvas is me.

i could not cry... but i am glad that i suffered today.

thank you for being my release. thank you for doing an "end-of-year" cleaning. thank you, E.

from, I.