February 18, 2015 § Leave a comment

I tried writing on the way to work on the train and there was nothing at all, and nothing too on the way home, almost I could stare each passenger out.

No books either in the bookstore that want me to read them and my brother did not talk to me at the weekend.

I don’t mean this though for self pity. Actually the overwhelming emotion is of humiliation, self-created.

We watch Empire Records and I to be honest enjoy it, and luckily my friends are learning quickly to turn their backs as I cool down.

You are, I never knew you less or I realise, how little. Bravery, do you understand it? I want to read some kid’s book or anyway, some text with no thing between the meaning and my brain, just the easiest words to go in straight.

It’s time to double the nights, catch up on sleep, turn my skin opaque again.

Mother, she urges me not to shoot after happiness nor to hope after it, even though I’ve concerned myself not with that but with living or, being interested.

Sometimes we advise happiness, the wanted thing, and keep for ourselves our own sense of justice and moral obligation. And that is why I am taking History.

Anthony, an acquaintance, quotes to me the citation in Birdman of Carver, essentially the individual in question’s ultimate wish to have been beloved upon Earth. When first he sent it I didn’t think so much of it but now, well, the problem is that it must be mutually allowed, and my body and my mind have closed up like a snapped clasp and even now I’m tired and relaxed it isn’t, and who knows if it will get the chance to open again.

I wish I never laughed unduly and laughed more at myself. I wish that I would learn to dance, but I had been too scared to and you weren’t, that time on Southbank. And I’m scolded for that; for my distance from childhood, for my foolish pent-up nature, disallowing myself.

It’s not ourselves but our ideas of ourselves, that block. But my idea of myself had been nothing

To be, an assertion (negated)


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