photo signe
I'm thinking about time, and it seems impossible to me.
Perhaps it's just growing up in the Western world and thus being imparted with an infallible linear sense of time (although we all know it doesn't feel this way, I'm thinking of my life as an arrow being thrown, only to arrive--due thanks to Anne Carson, at least as of late).
Or maybe it's something else, like the fact that all my days seem the same (sometimes), and whenever there's a slight break in the monotony I'm deadly scared and freeze up; "you look so uncomfortable, are you alright? Are you going home already?". This I only deal with by going home--perhaps I stand by the kitchen bench in my underwear thinking through the several factors that brought me here, and I feel sort of stagnant.
I'm thinking about time and wondering why Sundays are so slow, and if I experience anything anew anymore, and what memories I'm making. Taking one step... it seems so easy.
I'm thinking about my thesis, and it bores me to death. I'm thinking about my thesis (again), and it's new, and now it doesn't bore me--it excites me and thrills me and I am scared and terrified of showing it because it seems barer than anything else I've put out.
I'm wondering if I'm getting more accustomed to the world, and how we try (I try) constantly to think outside my head--to not be used to myself or to anything around me. A big part of my simply thinks I need to finish school (for now) and be able to take control over my time, my life and my projects, whereas another voice is telling me that it is now that counts. If it can't happen now it can never happen.
Is there always this internal strife? Am I ever happy with my mind as it is?
It seems like those times are when I have decided to write something new and discard the old, and then I don't want to go to bed at my usual hour and I'm fine with less sleep in quantity and quality--those are the hours days minutes when I forget about time and I forget to look at the clock and suddenly am surprised by the bright lights of my computer and how tired my brain is.
No, I'm not tired of anything, really, but there are things I'm used to
that I don't want to be used to.
Some nights ago I dreamt, and smell was in my dreams for the first time in my life (that I can remember.)
It felt like a revelation (relevation?) of sorts.
I must also procure an entire chorus (homogenous, preferably, representing my milieu, or imaginary environment) somehow.
The eve is long and I end this abruptly as it seems I do with all things--where this tendency comes from I don't
