What is the point of most of what we do? It is for the attention of others. There is very little that has an implicit value; that is, there is little that is an end in and of itself. What is the purpose of writing, for example? Is it that there is a message within that comes out fully formed, like a newborn child? I don't think so. Everything that is written is written for someone. But to whom? And why? And if it is written for someone else, doesn't that distort the meaning of it? That is, isn't there supposed to be a blindness, a sort of unselfconsciousness of art, of literature? I am struggling with this. There is nothing natural about conversations for me. To me, the other is still the other. And the issue of bridging to the other has still become one that is inscrutable to me...
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There is a vibration within me, but it comes from outside, always from the outside. I cannot find the vibration that is me. The feeling that is me. The memory or the song that is me. There is nothing to bind to, reliably. There are only the bangings and clangings of the outside world, impinging upon me. And though I complain about those distractions, there is the sense, the fear, that without those outside impingements, there would be nothing. Not a silence that is still, but a silence that drowns, that obscures. That is my fear, that life is untethered, that it is not connected to the outside world, and therefore is meaningless and irrational and irrelevant, a drowning thing, swimming in directionless circles, getting more and more lost in solipsism. I want to hear my song, I want to hear it so I can return to it, and rest in the narratives that it sings...
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Help me to find me. Help me to find my song. Then help me to find my voice. Things happen in that sequence. I am not to...
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