introspektiv

long since gone...

all excited to write, and then the second I start I try to
run away, be it mentally or physically. It is as if
something inside of me dreads putting words down where they
can be referred back to... I know that part of it is I am
unable to believe or accept that a) I have anything
important to say or b) that I have the ability to say in in
a clear or interesting way. But that's the point, isn't
it? It doesn't matter how or what I say, all that matters
is that I say something. The consequence of this
insecurity is that at times like now, when I am trying to
express something, anything, all I end up being able to
write about is my inability to write. Defining something
in its own terms... there's some philisophical name for why
that's a bad thing... I suppose I should have paid more
attention in class. But isn't that th story of my life?
Today in alexander class, we were given an assignment, buit
told that at the same time we had to want to "make the
change"... accept the assignment and make it our own so
that in the investment something would actually get doen.
Just like recovering from alcoholism... it's amazing how
everything seems to go back to the twelve steps. It seems
that whatever I do, whenever I try to get something doen,
it's as if Inuse every thread of my body to avoid it. What
am I so afraid of? or better yet, what in my past taught
me to foght with all my might the application of my whole
self? It would seem that if I try so hard not to
accomplish anything, or retain anything, then I must really
want to achieve something by it. What is my goal here?
Does ignorance, isolation and self-loathikng really sound
that appealing? It all makes sense in the clouds around my
head but they loose their essential purity asd they
condense into thought and action. It's like acid rain in a
way, slowly melting down my ability to fight back, stand
up, speak out. I think there is something compulsive in my
inability to look at the screen when I type. It's as if
I'm afraid of confronting my own words as they come out of
me, as if by staying on the cusp of my thoughts, I can
avoid retrospection, and then god forbid synthesis or
perspective. I am afraid of my history even as I create
it. and as I can't yet view my future, I am caught
eternally in the present-state. Why do I so despereatly
try to throw of the bonds of self-awareness? Is it because
I am too aware of this self that I do not approve of, am
not satisfied with? How is it that I see this greatest
gift odf thought the ability to think abstractly as a
burden? Would I really be happier in the eatsleepfuck
continuum? And yet clearly my actions say yes, because
these arre the only things for which I strive, for which I
actually fight for rather than against. If I can only let
this cloud of free thought, of righteous awareness of what
I wnat to be and do to envelope me... to find comfort in
thewarmth of myself, maybe my body would not revolt against
its keeper. Watched Baron Von Munchausen the other day,
stoned of course... there is a scene where robin william's
body runs wild when not stopped by the head... god help us
if my body ever gets loose.