Selections. The voices, the songs playing on the speakers. Hearing it all, feeling the vibrations. Imbibing the environment. Wondering what is it that is the self? The self is just a resistance, a hesitation, an iteration. A pause. An air bubble in the flow. We are made of different stuff from our environment. That is the truth. If there were no difference, then we would not exist. But we ex-ist, and therefore, therein, lies the problem. We want to be one with others, with our environment, but we are always already different and separate. And we are working so hard to establish a continuity, a smoothness with regards to our reality. There is no one here to stay, to listen, to watch, to observe, the environment is always shifting and empty.
***
The drink beside me is melting. The vibrations of the environment are sundering the ties it has to itself. Water to water, in the form of ice. And wondering at that. And worrying, always worrying, that one loses something to say, or that the things you say will stray inevitably into a country of lost intentions. Worrying about that. Worrying about neglecting what needs to be seen. Worrying about becoming irrelevant. And the hope that one is contained and contains the truth, the implicit path.
***
My brother is built on conflict. He defines himself by defeating others. I hate that. Especially because, as I was attempting to establish myself, he would continually destroy my creations. He made me feel so fake and inauthentic; he made me feel diaphanous. I wanted to be solid, to feel myself, and he would tear through me and stomp on me as though I was nothing. And he and his fucking cronies would laugh at me, ignore me. I hate them, and I hate them until the end of time. What they did is unforgivable. And the fact that they speak to me now that I have become someone cannot erase the fact that they committed that sin to that which had such a questionable and ambiguous relationship to reality at the start.
***
Here is an irony. I commit the very same unforgivable sin that I convict my brother of. That is, I feel I have been infected by the very qualifications that were imposed upon me. I look upon Musubi, and other small creatures, as somehow not being worth the consideration or respect that I have; that there is a filter to reality that prevents them from being seen as "worthy." People are doing this ALL THE TIME. And it is partially a necessary defense mechanism. Because we cannot give everyone and everything the consideration it is due. It is impossible. So why mourn, why feel guilt?
I recall this. When I was the target of attractions by others, did I have any more sympathy for them than those I was infatuated with had for me? No. So there is no reason to feel resentment? It still hurt. The fact that fairness is an artificial construct imposed by willful spoiled brats (human beings) upon a reality that is fundamentally uncaring. I simply
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