Friday, June 06, 2003
All the things I didn't write about.
About emptiness. About loneliness, and realising how lonely i've been. For how long. And since when. Not months, but years.
About losing direction, but being absorbed softly into confusion; about having a vague direction and drifting towards it. But losing purpose. About fatigue, sheer body sapping lethargy, about plunging into nothingness. About tension, treading a thin line between ecstatic apathy and irritable sullen-ness. About drifting, drifting, drifting; doing things that seem to mean nothing, for nothing, with no real result. About mundanity. And ennui.
About how I'd forgotten how tiring it could be to listen to people drone on about themselves, for themselves; even be they interesting, flamboyant characters with interests in the exotic, and even the taboo. And having to pretend to be interested, and feeling slightly on edge, especially when they try to tell you why they chase straight guys, and convert them. I almost laughed, then :)
But I didn't write about any of these things. Because they didn't seem worth writing about.
I'd far rather write about a new shirt with a silly slogan, about a beautifully written book series I've read, that's intensely athieist but such a compelling read. About friends gained, friends lost, and friends kept. I'd far rather remember the friends lost in my heart, and cherish the friends kept. I'd rather write about mead, which I've just tasted (ambrosia?), jive, which I've just discovered. And compassion, which I've started feeling again. About life, which is still very much out there.
And I would, except that I must sleep now. Even though I don't want to.
Sensibility prevails. Consciousness, wanes.
About emptiness. About loneliness, and realising how lonely i've been. For how long. And since when. Not months, but years.
About losing direction, but being absorbed softly into confusion; about having a vague direction and drifting towards it. But losing purpose. About fatigue, sheer body sapping lethargy, about plunging into nothingness. About tension, treading a thin line between ecstatic apathy and irritable sullen-ness. About drifting, drifting, drifting; doing things that seem to mean nothing, for nothing, with no real result. About mundanity. And ennui.
About how I'd forgotten how tiring it could be to listen to people drone on about themselves, for themselves; even be they interesting, flamboyant characters with interests in the exotic, and even the taboo. And having to pretend to be interested, and feeling slightly on edge, especially when they try to tell you why they chase straight guys, and convert them. I almost laughed, then :)
But I didn't write about any of these things. Because they didn't seem worth writing about.
I'd far rather write about a new shirt with a silly slogan, about a beautifully written book series I've read, that's intensely athieist but such a compelling read. About friends gained, friends lost, and friends kept. I'd far rather remember the friends lost in my heart, and cherish the friends kept. I'd rather write about mead, which I've just tasted (ambrosia?), jive, which I've just discovered. And compassion, which I've started feeling again. About life, which is still very much out there.
And I would, except that I must sleep now. Even though I don't want to.
Sensibility prevails. Consciousness, wanes.
