I've outgrown me, didn't I?
I wish I didn't.
But the I is gullible and impermanent after all. It's not quite like moulting; the shed skin remains alive. So like past present and future are all here at once? Yes but that's not it. Right? We shift with the instants, dying and rising once (or a trillion times) every second. Then we carry all our ghosts inside us like we're some giant kaleidoscope. Remind myself to look to a lake carrying its water; perhaps shine a flashlight into the depths and see how far that finger pokes. Images are gradually obscured as new images pile on. That's how it feels, looking into either direction. And the water pressure. It's like drowning in reverse, watching time drown itself.
dec. 27 / 2020
The places of the past, they're coming back, and more vividly than ever. Don't know how I should feel. Hopefully I didn't just jinx myself (which way even; if I jinx myself out of a bad thing is it still called a jinx?)
I am unabashedly narcissistic.
Who am I to decide what I am?
I could be a genius, or an absolute fool. But I'm probably somewhere in between, and that's the least satisfying place to be.
dec. 28 / 2020
To sleep, feed myself, and loop back to sleep. To wake so I may sleep. To toil so we may rest. Maybe this is the smoothest way to die, and so I am already dead.
do i care? do i
exist?
Have i not been echoed a thousand times already, meaning that i myself am the one-thousandth echo? Who needs to hear me then?
How absurd that we segment time (like it has meaning. like how they cut stories into pages). Like i said,
No story ends tonight. So let me sleep.
dec. 31 / 2020 | jan. 01 / 2021
Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing.
Sylvia, it's not the first time I've read this. But only now do I feel it in its entirety.
Does the I shatter with a bang or with a whimper? Maybe just don't shatter, damn it. Hold on tight.
jan. 10 / 2021
