Hungry for prose, he wrote.
Yes, I can relate too well, especially if everything feels like plastic or nothing. There have been too many of those days–-falling off the wagon despite knowing you could have held on to something or fall prey to mundanity while all you have to do is motivate yourself to go outside. But you couldn’t be bothered at the time; it either didn’t feel right, or you didn’t care.
If we fall on our faces, it’s because we choose to; otherwise, there won’t be anything to write home about. Being a little guilty of this, I admit that I sometimes take badly-directed risks on the emotional front. I hold on because I’ve grown so accustomed to fighting the inevitable. Revolt, feel alive, write about it and forget about it.
One example is that I can’t accept what’s wrong, as I’m convinced it’s right. This involves the lack of trust in my own instincts sometimes. It always takes a great number of forebodings to steer me towards the “destined” direction. Yes, I wrote “destined” because you are free to decide for yourself, except that your guts will always know better. Eventually, you’ll listen to your guts spill. You could’ve stopped it from happening, but you didn’t. You didn’t feel like it.
I’ve been paddling against the waves to vent my anger and prove a simply non-existent point. All because I’m bored and want to unload the excess of passion, or simply my inability to control my feelings. I only tend to flare them up–so that I feel something.
In other words–-pathetic.
One’s latent anxieties are best faced through a chess figure’s eyes because it involves the compulsion to move no matter what. Sisyphus is just a contrasting effigy to sitting passively in front of the TV. Rolling up a boulder or having his guts pecked and snatched. What sounds more like life to you?
My existentialist choices are simple — doomed to be free and yet captive in one’s head. There’s something not right here; look, it’s Mr. Determinism nudging my ribs! Can I still be who I want to be?
With a collage of all my life’s events flashing before my eyes…I don’t know.
Thus I choose the never-ending hunger for prose over anything.
I’d been asleep on my stomach for so many nights and didn’t realise its negative effect on my neck. Most of my dreams’ images are fragmentary, except for the sex in changing rooms, bathrooms and swimming pools. They say it’s dangerous to be too conscious of one’s own dreams or mind in general. This being the main reason why I fear meditation, as Philip K. Dick’s vision of the world may manifest itself and stretch my fears beyond sensibility. However, it may be the only way of dealing with them. On the plus side, they may help emphasise that you are there and alive.
I wonder, do you ever look for ways to elevate yourself? You may have a strong social presence with the ability to wrap every person around your little finger. Extroverted people are skilled communicators. Talking through written words and songs doesn’t really get me anywhere or to anyone. They get the wrong idea and approach you the wrong way. Why care, anyway?
Still lonely at the back of my head, I’m trying not to slip too far away from this page. I want to elevate myself– somehow.
Prose being my only healthy channel of anger release. As long as something bad happens only to the chess figure, I should be on the safe side. Or am I part of the game as well? Does one’s fiction influence one’s karma?