These days without hearing or feeling these keys beneath my fingers... makes me wonder what have I been doing? On what travels of fancy or dread have I been? Time appears quite static and space has a heaviness weighing upon me that Sisyphus would have envied. And yet the closer I draw to the grand negative, the sleep of the damned, death, the more I fight. The brighter my inner flame burns, burns for life. To live. To die on fire. To never stop until it is over.
The non-stop bombardment of image and sound that repeats and echoes itself ad nauseum. We are a society of sameness and sound-clip communication. I am not beyond this is any better than or hoiler than thou way. I am in it. I am of it.
What is the fascination, no, obsession of being lost in others' worlds? How does the writing of another hold me so fascinated, so stuck in a moment, so absolutely beyond my being? It is staggering. I reel. I rock.
How can I believe in others' words so completely? To think that I have had some similiar thing happen to me? Objective subjectivity. It's all about almosting. Almosting the feeling, almosting the emotion, almosting the scene... then we are one, one humanity. How can pain, like love, be felt in harmony? What does it matter? Is it about the fear of realizing we are alone, that communion, brother and sisterhoods are mere band-aids to the truth? What veil has been drawn that we have collectively allowed ourselves to believe in this? Happier times, childhood eyes filled with the fiction of living. How to live in this world? How not to? Mere muscle reflex is all that truly keeps me going.
Is there a term for life that is in the realm of alone that does not incur the idea of loneliness? Solitude? But with a positive light?
These are my 'day' thoughts. The ones that see the light of outside. Outside my cracked and dusty cranium.