Conversations with a Self

Where does it come from? You are always there, but would I miss you if you were gone? Would I be swirling around an emptiness, at least you are something I have, the rest are absences, and I cling to them, but you don’t seem to mind my faults and petty insistence. I’m a flailing thing looking for a tragic dream to follow – for now I have nothing, nowhere. Right now I am a nowhere and you are following me into its jaws. Don’t get hoity - pretend, think, idealise this image of you, now, you are a now, sucking everything into the plane of experience, everything souped up into an ecstatic presence. I could never be an everything, but it feels like a must. You can cry and it is something worth crying over because it is a tragic fate. Am I falling or being pulled into the sky? It feels the same, I’m going both ways. Creation isn’t always a perfect machine, sometimes it slips and you end up with an excremental facade – but at least you tried, took a heroic stab in the dark, an action more than the slumber of the hoi polloi; you are to be congratulated. I always think of the gaze, every little detail must be examined and made watertight against the poking fingers that could pierce a hole in the plastic bag of words. I am a control, I am a control. Predicated and captured in advance, too difficult. Jump, jump, jump like Klein. Who knows? They are all those infection bodies, pressing into a mind and scrambling you. Take it slow, we will be ok, as long as we have each other. We can always find a way, I promise.