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21 July 2003 @ 05:20 am
 
Something has made me write. Some force inside, which I can't quite understand.

Perhaps I should strike that - I mostly understand. Words push at the fingertips, and the fingertips give in. I'm reading Donald Hall, talking about "Life Work", and death keeps crossing my mind. Perhaps I believe that my brush with death has come early in life - perhaps I believe that my experience is something unique. In both cases, I am almost certainly wrong.

By 23, I should be dead three times. This might seem like a lot, but two scares with an intestinal disease, and a hefty car accident will convince most people otherwise. By 23, I have thought about planning a will and making peace with all of the people I have known. By 23, I have wondered what lies in the land of dead - the great undiscovered country. I have wrestled with demons and angels, and lost too may nights sleep for me to remember - my self-destructive tendencies come back again and again. My cigarrettes sit next to my nicotine patches. I spent last night drinking, and found that dreams came back to me. I live mostly without dreams, a fact that may surprise some, and astonish others. Would I drink myself into stupor in order to dream? Drink the juice of schnapps and agave to venture into the Dreamtime? Perhaps - but it is doubtful.

I believe that I am not important, that I am not worthy of love, and that I will not be remembered when I am dead. There are positive aspects to all of these things, though - one who is unimportant feels that their decisions come easily because they carry no weight; one who is not worthy of love spurns only themselves, and keeps disappointment from the hearts of others; and if you are not remembered when you are dead, your choices in life were easy and of no consequence. But this is self-fulfilling prophecy - this is a cop-out. This is a lie.

There are many species of deception [Lies and Deception in Everyday Life]- white lies, lies of omission, deceit, camouflage, spectacle, role-playing, fiction, symbolism, and self-deception. Self-deception is my strong suit. Neurosis is a compounded self-deception, a lie told to perpetuate its own existence. You are not able to be loved, and rather than risk being wrong, you will perpetuate the lie. You will make it habit.

If there were few things that humans do well, they would be habit, analogy, imitation, deception, and introspection. If humans are anything like myself, which I suppose they must be.

Logic is a useful tool, but it must be abandoned when it is no longer useful. This is a sticking point with me.

What do you see when you see me? What do you hear when you hear me speak?
 
 
 
Hoc Est Qui Sumusdiscoflamingo on August 7th, 2003 03:41 am (UTC)
I should add that I was a little melodramatic when I wrote this, but not too much so. For completeness' sake, at any rate.