September 19, 2014 § Leave a comment
at some point in your life, things seem to become strictly autobiographical.
Books that you read, eyes that you catch, things that make you happy —> all seem to build a straight line to where you come from. You could be reading something innocuous (for example, i was reading Gone Girl) and great big Feelings could suddenly come crawling, pawing out of the dark. Roiling quickly up into your throat and settling there. You are afraid that your nose will tip a little, your head will dip a little, that you will catch sight of another word and you will – lose your balance (lose your mind) – because then all your insides and bad-sides will come rushing and spilling out of you for everyone to look at. Spilling out of the hard forgotten, misbegotten knot of old lies in the pit of your (my) stomach. we can name this place The Abandoning. You know, like The Dreaming? My version of the Dreaming was The Abandoning. First i abandoned me, then i was abandoned, then i abandoned hope, then there was abandoned dancing. Worst/ best time of my life. Funny how opposites go together so often. Maybe because each needs the other to exist.
It seems both improbable and narcissistic for aaaaall these stories i read to jog similar memories out of me. How could i have so many relevant memories? Why can i relate so much? It seems that you can just keep beating my dead horse, and new dust will just keep on rising. what a bore.
I don’t want things to keep circling back to me. I worry i have developed a compulsive need to ‘relate’. I want books to start taking me outside my head again. The fuel inside my head is used up.
I wonder if there is still time to be someone else?