Saturday, January 01, 2005
The only thing i can think to write is the monologue that keeps me from writing at all.
Some nights I am full of energy to create and understand. I read and research and write unconsciously. Time isn't lost because those hours are timeless. It never occurs to me that time will end. And I never ask the question - Why do it at all?
On other nights that question burns like God in front of me. In terror of the answer, I cower and take flight. Why? Its just too much to face. And so it becomes a wall between me and everything I do. Why write? Why read? Why eat? Why move? Why?
To this I am defenseless. I've racked my brain since the time it first became, a time I don't even remember when, and I have no retort to it. All I can do is accept it, and try to stifle the effect.
So both of these beasts exist, both inhabit my soul, and I cannot deny that. They are there. But from that I can go no further. All that I am able to do is wonder without hope of an answer - which of them is truth, and which is mere delusion?
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