29 July 2015

Talking to Myself on a Winter Evening

I wake every morning fighting consciousness. Leave me in the womb of sleep, I do not wish to be born this day or any day. My first breath is a scream of rage at the cold, my crusted eyes blinded by the pale light of the new winter sun.



My workday is long and uneventful. Still, I find that I am in an unexpectedly good mood as I breathe the chilly air and observe the clouds and the gently falling snow. While looking at my agenda, I ponder the computer software that tracks my daily correspondence. I take careful notes. I do not trust memory. If not for this software, I would not remember anything about anyone that I’ve contacted. I consider this fact and make a mental note to record a few thoughts today. I note that I will likely forget to do this.

Many times throughout a typical day, a thought crosses my mind. “I’ll have to remember that,” I tell myself. I almost never do. So I try to write things down from time to time. One day, my living brains will cease,and if there is any thought that carries on, it will be as inaccessible to the world as if I had never had any brains to think it in the first place. However,I don’t write my thoughts because I think that they are special or important.Some part of me is convinced, I think, that somewhere in time, there is someone somewhere who will benefit from having the opportunity to read them. Somewhere,there is someone who will read them and they will be able to see and know me. It is oddly comforting. I don’t often feel as if I am ever really myself when interacting with people. My self is a heavily guarded secret, which I am doing my best to expose.

I’m tired. Is it the newly acquired orgonite in my pocket, the cup of coffee that I drank at noon, or my restless thoughts that prevent me from sleeping? The air is colder now that it’s midnight. What do I think about while I’m smoking in the darkness? The snow in the moonlight reminds me of a smooth and glossy confectioner’s glaze on a sugar cookie. These are the moments that are slipping away. Thoughts swallowed by the same ravenous, gnawing skeleton that eats away at all life from the very first moment of existence.Everything that exists is digested and redistributed in the belly of Time.

I think about the trees. The stars. I can taste the snow and the earth in the snow. I still can’t smell Winter. Some people say that the Universe is in perfect order and that it is undeniably designed. Others say that Chaos allows for the appearance of order. I consider that none of the greatest specimens of mankind fit into the typical order of things. Yet the social structure of any given community of people is such that the individual is stifled. Order is imposed for the good of the community, yet the community benefits from the creative chaos of the individual who simply will not do what s/he is “supposed” to do. I consider the genius of Nietzsche. The stability of the community provides the platform for the individual who has chaos in his heart.

Wet earth. I can smell it beneath the snow. I don’t know why, but I like it. I want to be in it, covered by the sweet smell of the damp fallen leaves. I am not a man but a mushroom dreaming that he is a man. I make a note to observe my habits and to record them whenever possible. I know I won’t do this religiously; I’m lazy and often work late.

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