feelings

 AAshley:  mmm yeah

feelings are stupid

--

i need a giant feeling vacuum, which i can use every night before i sleep, to suck up all these unneeded feelings and give me rest. or perhaps just an on-off switch, or perhaps one of those reset buttons for which you need a very pointy object with which to press.

Being

So far as I know, I know. I know where I am. I know where I have been, where I come from, in both the sense of location, and in the sense of my previous state of consciousness and awareness. I know where I am going, at least in the next few moments, and I have a general sense knowledge of the future which fades into uncertainty. I know many aspects of myself, from my physical being to my intellectual being to my emotional being to my primal being. I do not know my soul, because that does not belong to me. I know why I behave the way I behave, why I speak the words I speak, why I feel the emotions I feel. Though I am loathe to divulge my meanest truths to others, I do know them so far as my capacity to understand truth. I have no doubt about myself. This I call confidence.

What I do not know is all that is not of myself. The inability to interact with my surroundings to produce a predictable result, this is what builds the foundation of my struggle in every moment. A lack of control over oneself is not reflective of a lack of knowledge of oneself; it is a demonstration of the inability to anticipate the necessary input required in order to produce the desired output. Awkwardness does not come from any innate inability to perform; it comes from not knowing which performance to provide; that performance is a property of the surroundings, the input-requiree, the universe. Likewise, any revelation that one might consider to be regarding oneself is only an expectation or outside projection, the input of another device which one's output has not matched. That input does not define oneself. These other devices I call uncertainty.

All this knowledge is in fact limited by my physical being. Any malfunction in my physical being is not necessarily under my control, and my physical being is necessarily the source of manifestation of any phenomenon which I believe to have originated from myself. My metaphysical manifestation, though not absolutely tied to any particular part of my physical being, can surely be altered as a result of many influences to my physical being. What I have explained previously assumes a nearly congruent state of physical being; this is necessary for maintaining confidence.

Clearly, the amount of uncertainty present in the universe is greater than the amount of confidence. This can be seen if one believes that any two human beings possess a comparable amount of confidence, and that the confidence of the first human being does not at all overlap with the confidence of the second, since these two human beings are in fact separate entities. This is beneficial, since I understand that part of my confidence is the need for uncertainty with which to experiment and experience.

This is not to say that confidence is a static object. Confidence is nearly always changing. Confidence is not defined by its contents, but rather by the knowledge of its presence. Every aspect of myself that I am aware of is my confidence, and there is no other portion of myself which is not a part of my confidence; there is no part of myself which is part of uncertainty, and this is by definition.

These concepts have been described as close to my confidence as my psyche can permit in this environment.

It is an atomic bomb!!!!!

Melissa:  how's your fantasy team??

 me:  it is an atomic bomb!!!!!

 Melissa:  kablooom!!!!

Going

There was a man who loved a woman. He knew the direction in which he raced, metaphorically. There was a place where he would find some measure of happiness.

But where is it? The man wondered this to himself every day. Where am I trying to go? Where am I headed? There is a certain measure of insanity in sprinting as quickly as possible without knowing one's destination. For each instance in which he wondered this, a second thought quickly followed, in the manner of a person and his or her shadow, synchronous, inseparable, without discernible cause and effect. But if I cease my efforts to ponder this, if I take the time to consider for what and for whom I strive, should I pause and ponder the worth and the value of reaching this end of which I do not know, I shall never arrive.

And in this manner, he went. For he was not driven by fear, but by longing. Driven by a person he did not truly understand, or at least refused to, to an end which he surely did not know, and would never attain. It was not that he did not understand that each step he strode up an infinite dune simply pushed sand down and not himself upwards, it was that he simply kept his focus on the top of the hill, not bothering to see where he strode, not knowing that each foot was placed in the same place again, and again.

What stops such a man? In truth, he is never stopped and yet he is forever stopped, because he has never gone anywhere. He may fumble aimlessly for all eternity so long as he believes there is an end to his means. What he is doing unknowingly is waiting, waiting for the one whom he loves to match his movements in reverse, so that he need not go the distance, because that is not possible. He may make every effort, move mountains, part seas, storm the heavens, but all that matters not without a single step from her. This is so because he knows not even where heaven is in order to storm it, as his mind is elsewhere, distracted, forever longing.

Fortunately, this man is not a metaphor. Such people exist only as concepts sketched by a wicked writer's pen. In truth, not knowing the place to place one's struggle eventually meant for him that he ought not place himself at all. For one should only enter into heaven in order to stay there, and thus I will not advance until the time has come for me to go and remain.

One Hundred

One hundred times,
have I now been here,
for moments found free,
for thoughts written drear.

In hope my words given,
for more words returned,
yet as wounds bleed red,
did I seek praise unearned.

A slow drip slowly fading,
the nature of hope scorned,
left by I for another,
those thoughts left forlorn.

And yet returning for return,
each instance do I return
my ideas offered up,
as never have I learned.

So now must I complete
another entry dear,
may here find my heart,
words my heart hope hear.