Postponed living

 

 

Konica12510

 

 

Lostness   (46)

 

What could save me from this abyss of the self?

 

Books have assisted in postponing existence.
Now unfit for life, I make do by reading about it.
My attempts to “start really living” led nowhere.
Or, rather, back to isolation;
and these words.

Too restless to take pleasure by mere being,
while with human company I often feel stressed,
there is a reassurance in the presence of books.

 

How should I learn to love myself?

 

Must I deny the verdicts of parents, or society?
Perhaps such problems stem from childhood,
accepting harsh judgement by others, upon my life.
Taught to internalise a condemnation,
which may then perpetuate injustice.
Thus, uttering any personal assertion that is positive,
I struggle against an internal barrier
of shame.

Yet implausible dreams still arise: of beauty, and a woman’s passion.
Visions neither nature nor nurture gave me the equipment to realise.

 

Can the head cure a sickness in the heart?

 

It is common to associate happiness with normality,
though times I passed as normal failed to dispel my discomfort.
Sometimes adding a sense of diminished authenticity.

Might reason overcome emotion?
How to change my automatic responses?

If thinking did not get me into this mess,
why expect it to get me out?

 

I hoped, perhaps, to mellow.
but despair
seems ageless.

 

 

(Jun-July 1989)

 

(philosophy/psychology/mental health/writing/opinions/ideas)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Distractions and mortality

Lostness   (20)

 

One can spend a lifetime planning and worrying, without actually living.
Which, in certain cases, could be the point.

Or there is an urge for continually gaining information, then finding no time left to use it.

Distractions and mortality.

 

Death negates security.

 

The dead take our shared history with them. Part of a reflection in the social mirror is missing.
If I live long enough, that mirror may contain nothing except my haunted stare.

 

This desire for oneness, in my isolation, makes me vulnerable.

 

The reward of love is love; but it cannot be demanded.

 

Are chains of my past purely psychic?
I sit gazing at items in the room.
I may hold one, even print a name upon it, yet these objects do not feel like possessions. The relation is more “being with” than “having.”
Things retain an essential apartness. It is for me to ascribe their significance.
I spread meaning into my world.

 

Time is a medium of transformation.

 

 

(July 1979)

(Philosophy/opinions)

 

Wounded awareness

Lostness  (12)

 

At my school any pretext sufficed for bullying. Yet perhaps this was more a sign of animal health than my own isolation from the pack.

 

Tasteful eclecticism as a method of avoiding totalities.

 

If the unknown is more exciting than the known, one could find searches for new information tinged by anticipation of inevitable disenchantment.
But do we really know any part of the universe?
In that case we could face disenchantment at the impossibility of knowledge.

 

Novels can spoil us for real people.

 

So much time spent sleeping: what we might give for some of it at life’s end. Though, if we try to live without sleep, that end will probably come a lot sooner.

 

Intellect may be sabotaged from within.                                                (31/12/1978)


 

My going to parties: as evidence for the incorrigibility of optimism.     (1/1/1979)

 

Sunlight on evening grass. Little pats of warmth touched him, like faint invitations to desire. Being alone felt somehow wrong.
He stood waiting, as life slipped past. Wounded awareness. A sliver of the infinite. Wanting to give love, while there was still time.
Yet he knew, watching the sun lower behind trees, that this would be another night of going home to silence. And a last stare, in the bathroom mirror, at his characterless face: which sealed him off from those girls he longed to know, trapping the bird of soul in clumsy flesh.

 

 

Trapped by the system

Lostness  (9)

 

He sat in a hard plastic chair. The room had doors on each side. One way led to offices, unseen by the public. Another to a waiting area.

He had been summoned here, but not told why.

A man entered, leafing through a large file. He spoke without eye-contact.

“I asked you to attend to inform you of the decision of the Commission.”

Who were the Commission, he wondered. What did they know about him?

“As empowered by the Act of 1976, section 25, it has been decided that, in view of your persistent and wilful inability to obtain suitable employment: you should be charged with failure to maintain yourself. Which carries a possible penalty of a fine and/or a period of imprisonment, not exceeding three months.”

So the state would have its revenge against an offence of nonconformity. He must grovel before the dismal god of work?

What to do next?

He wanted to be a writer or artist, but could not see the path forward. Some way beyond his current isolation and depression. A critical inner voice undermined such hopes. With fear that any feelings of potential were just another illusion.

 

(15/12/1978)