Before NAiLED QUiCKSiLVER the-Undulant acrobatic of flux (waveforms(against(an(oscillatory(horizon)))))
After Why would I want more time to write? Writing is only the recording of rainfall, a recreation of precipitation assembled from memories. A copy of a copy. Displayed impressions of marks made in the mud, & when the basin runs dry, writing is wringing. No, at moments like those, the writing isn't worth doing. Writing isn't it. Because even though writing stands guard over it, writing is still standing in front of it, blocking your view of it, & you have to peer around it, come at it from different angles while walking sideways away from it, to even be aware of it, it, it that is found within fissures, inside slants, between raindrops. The only way to find it is to look the other way. If you want to ask for directions, you can't just ask how to get there, you have to ask for the way to somewhere else. I'm driving around for hours without any sense of direction but it's only when I forget where I'm wanting to go that I pull up at Serendip.
The Tin Woman scares crows, pale cybernetics,hair-wires curl as altered clockwork ticks, fragile fission, plays like psychoactive anarchist archeologist, sifting soil-noise under wind-hymns, fuzz-fractured sinews spewed hot in secret, but she dug through the scuzz with glass head, metal hands
....sleep is my substance......................................................................... .......................................................................narcolepsy, my narcotic... .............................................................................................................. ............................................................................................................. ...................................the gates start closing at 11................................. ............................higher functions dropping like dominoes...................... .............................................................................................................. ............................................................................................................. ...........yes, rest embalms my mind in bandages........................................... .............................................................................................................. .............................................................................................................. .............................................................................................................. .............................................................................................................. .............................................................................................................. .........................which, waking, I unwrap..............................................
filtered through the ALEMBIC filtered yes, purified through the ALEMBIC purified of vowels, within the ALEMBIC f vwls, wthn th fffffffffiiiiiiiillllllllttttterrrreddd ALEMBIC filtered like magic ALEMBIC it's alchemy your meaning becomes ALEMBIC the meaning purposelessness becomes ALEMBIC purposefulness
purposefulness becomes ALEMBIC alembic
1. NONE NEON ONE ON EON NOON NO ON NO NOON EON NEON ONE NONE ONE NEON ON NOON NO NONE EON NEON EON ONE NOON ON NO NONE NO ONE NOON ON NEON NONE EON EON ON NO NONE ONE NEON NOON NOON NEON NONE EON ONE ON NO
- "the spontaneous perception of connections and meaningfulness in unrelated things"
- "the experience of seeing patterns or connections in random or meaningless data"
- "the perception of or belief in connectedness among unrelated phenomena"
- "The spontaneous perception of connectedness and meaningfulness in random phenomena: seeing patterns and connections where none exist"
- "Pattern recognition itself can morph into the disorder apophenia, 'the spontaneous perception of connections and meaningfulness in unrelated things.' Which means that even when Pollard discovers The Footage's maker, it's an ambiguous - and potentially apophenic - resolution. Are the subtlest patterns we see really there? To Gibson, the most satisfying moments of our reality are possibly just reflections of our needs and dreams."
I take one side You take the other side! This is the second line This is the third line This is the third line I take the other side You take one side! I take the fourth side! You take the my side For I side with my side My the sideline I You one the mainline I'm on your side This is your side This is your side I take one side You take both sides You take both sides This is the second line This is the last line Besides,
Jelly butter & peanut Scrambled up sunny & eggs side Milk of glass Bagel cream with everything cheese Salad fruit with strawberries of chunk, bananas of slices, berries blue, apple reds Cakepans on syrup Malaprop-flavored yogurt of cup
Something to stop the boredom! A joke, a project, a distraction! Splatter neurotransmitters across the mindscape! -*` , <^> ~./ Writing without writing! Another day done! Listlessness! Rhythm! Linking a chain towards eventual epiphany! Tap! Tap! Tap!
1. Chess board 2. Square on a chess board 3. Player viewing a square on the chess board 4. Player viewing that square on that chess board not as it is in reality 5. Player viewing that square on that chess board not as it is in reality, but as it was one or more moves ago
—in this manner, we fail to adapt to the changes, the current reality, the progression of one moment after the previous—
—superimposing memory over our own optics, we remain imprisoned in our idealization of the past.
6. Player viewing that square on that chess board not as it is in reality, but as it was one or more moves ago, makes a move which acts upon this conception, or fails to anticipate a perspicacious move by the player's opponent 7. Player viewing that square on that chess board not as it is in reality, but as it was one or more moves ago, makes a move which acts upon this conception, or fails to anticipate a perspicacious move by the player's opponent, and, in so doing, loses the game.
"Tell them what you did" Zoom. Let me make myself clear. Clarification. Cleverness. Wistfulness.
Data storage: tell different people different stories so you can piece together the fragments/get the full picture/remember the whole truth/store pieces of yourself with your friends & acquaintances/forget the information/make room for additional stories/cultivate an air of intrigue/honor the multitudinous nature of your self/not be tied down/call attention to the irrationality of the universe/be unpredictable/loan out your personality/actively engage with the faulty process of memory/comment upon the digitalization of our identities/repeat yourself/tell different people different stories so you can piece together the fragments/get the full picture/remember the whole truth/etc.
Hello, my name is "This painting showcases Picasso's use of common materials in an unorthodox manner." I live at "The printed pattern on the wax cloth conveyed the illusion of chair caning." I am in love with "The pasted paper appears to be something else than what it truly is, while the rope framing it is a tangible object." My friend's name is "Shortly thereafter, Braque found a roll of wallpaper with an oak pattern, which he then cut into pieces and integrated them into a drawing." In the evening, we took a walk through "These endeavors eventually led to pure surface textures being contrasted against one another and forming a coherent artwork."
Madlibs. The terrain of grammar. The life of the sentence. Still life. Meta. Collage. Simultaneous. Parallel. Playful. Painting without paint: painting that is not painting; writing that is not writing.
Text taken from Cubism by Dorothea Eimert, describing Still Life with Chair Caning by Pablo Picasso
EEyes ssplash-off thPage L00kng forSomething toDo BOREDom i=s AnUglyThing I'"'"'m knot a11 write I had written a nice piece about Thanksgiving but I thought I'd save that for Thanksgiving---I mean it's not especially breathtaking but the warmth is there Breef intrrerrruptionsOfSanity E.E. Cummings, E.E.at your HearT owt " that's not music, that's -t_-y_-p_-i_-n_-g " !towel! Trying to write is like c/a/r/v/i/n/g/ with a \k\n\i\f\e
Sore throat Burnt tongue Starving speech Ability to inventory Stereo system Internet connection Mystical incantation Schedule to keep Television series Where am I? Counting days Cell phone charger Chicken soup & all the trappings
Taking stock Of cliches
If the phrase-shoe fits, wear-write it
& all I have to write is in here: ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ But all I have to say is in here:
Sleep---sense of self, sense of everything? balance, significance, memory, knowledge? (Is sleep everything?) Without it, we die. Dreams---a story we walk through/create in the raw process of...defragmentation, reorganization? Oneiric: relating to dreams Without processing, we are nothing---or too much Time to strengthen the tree roots, to crunch the mind's detritus To grow back the limbs that were cut off while awake To lose ourselves & stroll through oblivion
Waking in white, save me from daylight Weary, half-dead, with a steel wool head Window's supernova has frozen my bones Which echoes cold drones of unanswered phones Wired to my bed by the day's webs of dread & when it's time for night, I'm still not all right
After that, things get exponentially less interesting.
In fact, I really only like the first ten verses in the Torah.
The chaos unformed and void is cool.
But the best state of affairs for the universe is when everything is water, with an inexplicable, indescribable expanse somehow separating, in directionless existence, the water above from the water below.
I imagine that this would be prime real estate for me.
Polarized. Expectant. Full of potential.
Charged with paradox. Ripe with concept. Impossible and pure.
And then land and vegetation comes in, and animals, and, worst of all, humans, which ruins everything.
I start to lose attention about then.
Give me the abstract any day.
I wonder why, in this story, God decides to create.
Why He did not stay content to dwell in the space of that second day.
I prefer Him when He is at his most creative, before He starts to destroy anything, or take an interest in the affairs of man, which could be the same thing.
In the Kabbalistic tradition, God is Light without End, and creates the universe by receding, leaving space for us to exist.
If God were to return, He would obliterate everything, because God is total.
When I was a kid in Sunday school, we were asked to draw what we thought God looked like.
I drew a white man with a white beard.
Other people drew wind blowing and shit like that.
It was then that I first realized that I had a problem with authoritarianism.
With believing what people told me, and following what they told me to do, and actually believing that I myself had originated those commands in the first place.
And that I was not, in fact, the most creative person in the room, but just as capable of closed-mindedness and fear as anybody else.
But I still believed that God talked to me, and that the leaves had feelings and thanked me for not crushing them on my way to school.
That my imagination was as real as anything else.
The world was so much more alive back then.
I played with plastic robots I had made out of tinker toys, and invented a television show for us to star in inspired by Deep Space Nine and Mystery Science Theater 3000.
I called this show, which I was obsessed with, Space Out.
After years of this, I eventually realized that my toy robots were never going to be onscreen, and so I sadly let them go.
It took too many more years after that to let go of the idea of God.
Who are you wearing? I'm wearing me. This skin is my costume, a disguise all can see. We dress up to stand out, kick back or fit in, but the outfit means nothing without you within. You pretend that you are what you wish that you were, which reveals what you're like, or so we can infer.
Whether half-stripped risque or wrapped tight in a sheath, every costume reveals that we're nude underneath.
That's (1)ne small step for sound—(1)ne giant EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE form
Q. Why do you write? A. Because I wouldn't have much if I didn't. Oh, and I'm in pursuit of something. Perfection, epiphany, whatever you want to call it. Q. Why pursue this something through writing? A. Well, that's just my particular tool I use. There are any number of ways to go about it. I think we are all pursuing these unanswerable questions in our own way. Is writing any better than, say, painting? Can you do more with words than you can do with pigments? I think all of the arts are cross-curricular, borrowing each others' strengths, and learning from each other, so maybe it all evens out. And, of course, this could be done with science, too, or mechanics, or anything. It's whichever medium you're drawn to. Q. What draws someone to a particular medium? A. The way their brain works. Q. It's that simple? A. Well, that and the experiences they have that lead them in a certain direction. Maybe it's whatever provides the best pay-off. But of course, the other thing that's involved with that is effort. People will tend to go for the thing that gives them the most pay-off for the least amount of effort. I mean, that's why I stopped drawing, really. My ability stopped at the level of doodling cartoon characters, because I wasn't willing to put in the effort to get to the next level of ability. So maybe I just write because that's the easiest medium for me, and I've practiced enough that I'm at a certain level of skill. Q. So you see it as less a question of finding your true voice or medium, and more as a matter of laziness and compromise? A. (Laughs) Yes, yes, I do. Q. The converse of that, though, logically, is that if you practice at something long enough, you will approach a level of mastery, and perhaps that could happen for anything that you commit to. A. Right, yeah. Makes me think of the idea of the Renaissance Man, or any of these people nowadays who try their hand at any number of disciplines. I suppose it's about being good enough at something so that it flows out of you, intuitively, eliminating the need for a certain amount of editing or struggling. And you've already got it at a high enough level that you can only improve it from there. I'm definitely jealous of people who have mastered many arts, but they have put in the time, so...it's earned. Their skill, not my jealousy. Q. Beyond being jealous, aren't you also a little bit afraid? A. Afraid? Q. That you won't be good enough, that you'll fail, that it'll take too much time... A. Sure. All of that. We all have fear, don't we? Q. Sounds like an excuse. A. Yeah, but if I don't have the ability, then I'm not able to do it. Q. That's why you train, why you practice, improve... A. Yeah. Well, right now I'm improving my ability to not give up. To try. Q. I don't see how you can improve that ability without...trying... A. I'm trying to try. I don't have any more for you. There's nothing else I can say because it would just be more excuses. Q. You're very uncomfortable with this, I see. A. End of interview.
It's beautiful work It's something to do A stone thrown in your path A cabinet to file A libretto to write It could be anything Anything to appease the authoritarian part of you But some part of you won't fall for that And you can't help thinking There was something else
I was in a bad place over the summer and I took a lot of notes. The following is only a small fraction of my output. I had hoped to turn it into something a little bit more together, but I believe that there is value to presenting it in fractured form, because let's face it, that's the form I was in: fractured. Thus, I have refrained from a major editing of the text. While I recognize that it is probably unfair to dump all of this here without additional explanation, I hope that the sooner I present this, the more time we will have for it all to sink in...
And so, without further ado, I present:
EXCERPTS FROM THE "NOTHING SOMETHING EVERYTHING" NOTEBOOKS
I tried to survive in a vacuum
In lieu of everything, I tried to be nothing
I held my breath & lost consciousness & when I awoke, there was no I
Remove that which forms you & you will be formless
Kill every hornet in the swarm & you are left with air
Like shedding a succession of nesting dolls
…repeating into infinity, or nothingness?
…or are you left with a core?
I hoped to unpeel memory, identity, idiosyncrasy, to get at the core beneath
Only to gasp for breath as each disposed rind uncovered nothing, not even air
We have no core because we are everything at once
The core means nothing without the surrounding layers
The layers create the core
One thing is just as important as everything else
We invent the center
Is our core nothing but a magnet attracting experiences and interests?
A pole as a point in the spectrum, determining perception
(Who wrote these words? What being, what consciousness?)
(To break out of the squishy box. Break through. Break out of oneself.)
(What would be left—a self tied to the body, lashed to the mast of a ship without a captain?)
I’ve been throwing away memories…finally I may throw away my self…
I isolated myself. I closed myself off and I widened the gaps in my self & I fell through
I must place a sign at the edge of consciousness: Go no further.
My memory has many holes
I am forgetting who I was & now I don’t know who I am
Who is in this skin?
I am a snake eating its own head. I am a snake shedding its own self.
(The self eats the self)
Will I even forget my self?
One day I may forget the last drop of me, squeezed out through a narrowing mind
I stripped away everything. Now I am barely anywhere.
Every morning when I wake up, I’ve forgotten a little bit more of who I was
and a little bit more of who I am.
I slowly poisoned my body with solitude
Sweating ideas, each bead escaping a fragment, a concept
I collapsed & suddenly realized I had been running
My past beat my persona into being & my present beat my persona to a pulp
I erased people/places/things; I went over & over the same material until it screamed
My drive to know/experience everything became a drive to know/experience nothingness
My body isn’t the one with the death wish
My mind has disconnected from my body (& this is not a good thing)
(Communication breakdown between body & head. Head takes control but doesn’t know what it’s doing, needs body, needs to order body where to go, but body doesn’t need the mind, but a mindless body doesn’t know it’s alive)
I blanked out fighting to fill in the blanks.
Leaping across the void, no longer lingering
Parallel facedown on barren darkness
An interloper in the palace of my mind & the intruder is myself
We can’t break out of the mind
What to clear away to get to this—raw, scary—a beating heart or a throbbing brain
The beating of the wings of a bird straining against its cage to fly away
(Words recurring, neurons revolving, writing revealing the mind uncoiling)
What is the choice? To avoid all people? To cast off life? To dissolve into thought?
No choice? We have no choice?
To read minds, to walk through walls, to be invisible.
To be not here. To be not there. To be nowhere.
I blocked your signal
I established distance
Why did I feel more within myself than I felt for others?
Now I am no one
Out of touch will drive you out of mind
I thought, if I am removed from reality, I can objectively question it
Not realizing that a self can think objectively, but there can never be an objective self
A self is, by definition, subjective
You need others to obtain your objectivity
Between their subjectivity & your subjectivity, you have objectivity
One can bring up objective criteria, but everything is processed through the self
I stopped moving. And I forgot.
I vowed to exist as little as possible. Not a vow of silence, but a vow of non-presence.
Self-imposed exile. Not only from others. Exile from the self, imposed by the self.
I wanted to take myself out of the equation, remove my effect on others. Damage control.
My self was my best friend but I got rid of all my friends, including my self
System crashed, mind forgot.
Am I coherent?
I strained for passage to unvisited skies
Spent years stretching back the catapult
And now I’m flying, flailing, falling
Is this what I wanted?
My thinking took over and strove to numb my feeling
I used to be torn between wanting to help others and wanting to be alone
Then I was torn between myself—between sanity and insanity
Turning reptilian, reclusive, remote
My consciousness played cruel jokes on my subconscious
My body gave up—seceded from the tyranny of my mind
Until slumbering deep reeled back & reined me in
I wanted to be a recluse getting my daily dose of society by hiding in the bushes & listening to people as they go by but moving away the second before I see them or they see me—bungee jumping, where the bungee cord is my depression and other people are the ground
I wrote, letting pen carry me, keeping me afloat, as perspective submerged & I observed in third person, pen snakes across the page, carrying me, carrying me, swooping across the page like an aerial attack with kamikaze inkblots, planes flown by demons, mental legs stretch and run, pens swoops down and bears me up, carries me out, scribbling, scribbling, mind a blank as pages are filled. Ink spilled and this happened.
This is how it feels to stretch yourself thin
Poured my self out and left with emptiness
Even the vessel cracked
The basest element of the self will pull you down
I thought, escape the self’s gravity & you will feel clean
Caught in orbit, or free to roam space… pulled by a strong force perhaps collapsing in on oneself…
Ink spilled and this happened
My body is a marionette and only sometimes do I hold the strings.
I’ve got demons. Might as well make my demons dance.
Twitch, limbs! Curl, lips!
I knew it was time to run when I was scared of little children.
One wrong move & you’re 80 years old alone in a sad little house on a dismal street.
I don’t have to explain where I came from
I don’t know what I am, or what I am going. Mad?
Does it even matter who I am? You either agree with me or you don’t.
I didn’t care where I came from—I thought it restricted me
Who cares where we came from? We’re here.
A concise history
(I used to be positive about everything. The best would come for everyone. Now I don’t think anything works the way we want it to…
I used to believe that everything they wanted would happen)
I like another way out. Just in case.
A backdoor out of the prison/palace of the self, an escape clause in the restrictions on consciousness.
In this jumble, who can isolate the beginning?
The beginning is hard to find. Because nothing ends?
From nothing we came & nothing we become
(They say it’s the journey that matters, dismissive of the starting point…)
I needed to leave, to see, objectively, who I was
But I was who I was with, and now they are gone
If you turn your back on your friends, you invite them to turn their backs on you
Rather than committing to others, I committed myself to the mind’s insular institution…
I followed the thread, which led me to a frayed edge
Better to buttress a self than to obliterate it—blobs of jelly can’t help anyone
Create a better person (more compassionate, empathetic)
Deconstruction at the service of reconstruction
Away from my friends, it was easier to believe they never existed
I have slid into solipsism
I retained my capacity for experience—but I have nothing left to experience
Location changed, left me enjambed
across the dark, vast continent of consciousness
imagining meaning in the absence of melody
I can’t tell if I love or hate humanity, or only certain specimens
I can’t tell if I hate the person I was or if I want to be him again
The memories in my mind resist the face in my mirror
I thought I could avoid choice—but this is itself a choice
Dancing on the buzzing light of a life in paradox…when everything speeds up so fast that it evaporates, or maybe freezes…enjoy the treat…
My very being expresses a giant question mark. ? the fuse to a bomb which will explode when I find out there are no answers…so I travel up and down its length to distract myself from the end…
I would be happy with a lobotomy—if I finally got that lobotomy I always wanted…
I am unfinished. I thought I could finish me, but the only finish comes with death
The best thing for me would be to like myself and respect more people
Turns out I’d rather be at peace than in pieces
Concentrated, not distracted
Not scattered, but amassed
How much can I give up, what can I give up, sacrifice…
We are not whole, but then again, nothing is
We can always advance…
There may be no everlasting peace so enjoy what pieces you find
Feeling your pulse and seeking your friends
Maybe I missed something
Maybe I need to trick my self. But where did that thought come from?
I proved (to my self) that the self cannot (should not?) transcend itself
The self dissolving itself…
I have failed in my quest. I thought that destroying my self would make me pure. I forgot that it was my self that made people respond—it was my self that people loved. Now I am in pieces, and the self I construct will be a piecemeal creature. Something in my subconscious is a janitor, forlornly sweeping the detritus of my consciousness back into a whole. Glue together the shards of a bowl. It’s a mockery, an imitation. When I am no longer myself, I cannot even imitate myself as I once could. I have failed.
The world of the finite is the world of boundaries. To exist, you need limits: shape, mass, form. It is only the separation from everything that allows you to exist. Even if the elements among everything are the same, you are a very specific combination.
Though you are separate—and though you cannot communicate with other beings on a one-to-one ratio, to know/feel whowhatwhenwherewhyhow they really know/feel—you have an obligation to help them…to try to know/feel them. Because it is better than the alternative: to disappear into the self. We can embrace others and go beyond our self, or embrace our self and devour our self.
I got tired of people. I didn’t want to interact with them anymore.
This is the reason why my identity is scattered, why I seem like so many different people
It’s because I even bore myself. & so I change myself to excite myself.
(Oscillate. Channel surfing.)
I cleaved myself from my friends
I was trying to perform the least violent act—
—to remove myself naturally. Let body run its course and mind run to…
The reason I strayed away from others was because I didn’t want to surrender my self—because I thought that when I was with others, I was not me…
I thought this whole thing was about surrendering my self.
But now I realize that I have clung ever tighter to my self. I have surrendered to my self.
This whole time that I have been lying here, I have been no one but me. I have wrapped myself in a cocoon of self.
And my self is selfish. I am solipsistic.
I never reached out to grasp anyone because I knew I would hurt them when I recoiled
Not realizing that I never had to recoil
You can be your self and be with other people. You expand your self. You open up, and contain multitudes.
I wanted to be myself, but whatever I do is being myself because it comes from me.
While playing a role is not being ourselves, the choice of that role reveals ourselves
Who you want to be is the negative space that reveals who you are
I sensed the inner argument among the pieces of my brain. I thought (and wondered who was the “I” who thought it thought) that I could easily rip myself apart at the seams. …
When is it better to bend & when is it better to snap?
…after one has torn oneself, one can begin the much-needed repairs…
Peeling back the layers…
I learned to distinguish between what was inside and outside my head, but then I retreated inside, making the point moot.
(A long adolescence)
(Or a slow death, or a drawn-out suicide—if I don’t change)
I am who I always was. Environment set off the traps inside me.
My environment allowed insularity.
You follow along a logical line of development.
I contained myself. Spiraling inwards..
Years of staying inside. Only taking, never giving. All input, no output.
If I remove the filter my input is my output
People can only see your output
What you see now is all of that input, through a thin film…
(No one cares about your input, only your output…)
Break through to the next line on the step-graph
As if I winked out of existence and back in again
I objected to dancing around the issue. I didn’t realize we were dancing around a hole, or a fire, that you can dare to dance around or leap over or come right up to, but if you dance within it, you die.
Looking in one direction blinds you to other directions.
Sometimes, skirting the issue reveals the issue
Like skimming over the surface of the water
Whereas facing the issue directly is like shooting a fire hose at an ice sculpture, where the shape of the sculpture may be revealed, but the water glances off
Looking away, you can see it in the corner of your eye
I have intimacy problems. I have difficulty being with others because I’m afraid of losing me. I acted differently with different people. I thought that meant that I was not enough/ nobody, or too many/everybody. I did not realize that any way I act, by definition, is me. I am the one acting a certain way, and so…
(To play a character versus be somebody)
I think therefore I am: unhappy? confused? aching? doomed?
I think it, therefore it is? It is, but not as I perceive?
The imperfection of perception
The terror of mental territory
Mind-expanding? No, mind-stagnating. Circular. Won’t get the answers from one’s own
mind, but rather outside stimuli (including other people). Circumvent one’s personal
filter/sieve. Be friends with the uncomfortable feeling of being wrong. Embrace it and
learn to accept it.
Can’t run from the center. You move but are always equidistant from the center. You
take the center with you when you run…you scuttle along on the (shape? Inner
surface?) of the globe…
I’m a reflective guy. I’m like a Hall of Mirrors.
(…looking for escape and seeing only more me…)
I’m out there. Anyone want to join me?
I had wondered, do we need something to believe in? Not necessarily. But we need something to serve as solid ground. When I no longer trusted in the essentiality of—
—when I no longer believed in—
—the self, everything dropped away. We need basic principles. Our perception, our filter, our hole-filled yet solid sieve, keeps us from sluicing through and splashing out into the abyssal ocean/oceanic abyss
I long for experiences during which I forget to count down the seconds until it is finished…
The ability to be, to be whoever, free of expectations and other hindrances (what about when expectations are positive? Very highly positive expectations may not help—you can only meet expectations of you that are within immediate reach)
Did I display much promise? I never promised anything. That’s why I must hide.
To avoid disappointing, I must disappear.
I have hated myself. Being thought of as perfect spoiled me.
It got claustrophobic, being in a box: people’s expectations of who I was.
I failed. Raze the ground. Let no future me return to plant seeds.
I was paralyzed because I didn’t know what I was doing. Now I know what I’m doing. I’m decomposing.
Burning the soil of my self
Fertilizing with humility?
Something is hidden. Maybe the next sentence will be a revelation. Maybe this one. Or the next one.
Even if you see me with perfect clarity, there is still distance between us.
You can’t circumvent the process of learning.
In this existence, balance can only be preceded by imbalance
It is a process of transformation
You must go through all the steps
(Technically, you might be able to speed it up, but you wouldn’t be getting my point)
We’re never finished
I plan to get better as I get older
I give this to you, like anything else you’d experience, for you to interpret
For you to pick out the patterns
I wish more people cared
One moment. (Everything in one moment.) (All of this in one moment.) (Now imagine, all of this, in one moment.)