Its hard from where I stand now. I used to have so little to ask for from time, I used to feel so little responsibility for the seconds and minutes of my day, I used to feel so old, because I had so much time that I was not responsible for and so I lived in my head more than out of it. I lived in my thoughts, a second not thinking was a second wasted. I built the clouds in my world, I lifted those fluffed up mastadons and traced them in graceful deformity across my skies, I felt that nearness whenever I stood under the vast, curved starry sky over KL from the 18th floor, with the city stretched before me, I paid attention to colors and not just lines or maybe I didn’t, I felt my fingers itch to draw and paint and twirl around and around like a demented pianists hands. Or a conductors hands. I was like a conductor of my life and my world was in my mind, and I lived in the past, and my body moved through the same places, tracing the same footsteps over and over again, through the living room, the sidewalks, the fast food place, the path next to the fire station, the train, the uni, the bus, the sick dizzying feeling of too many bodies and of the need to glamourise every bit of my life in my writing, when neither was it sordid, nor was it Paris style class, it was just a life and I chose to live it with dignity, mostly in my mind.
Now its like I forget how much responsibility I have for time, and I drift off into nothing again when everything is so sharp and real. So many times I don’t think, I just am, I just be, I just feel, I just perceive. So many times I just exist and that seems to be enough, I no longer always feel guilty just for living, I no longer always feel guilty just for existing, or just for caring. Except I do feel guilty sometimes and that drives me crazy…
Could we walk straight anyway, or as straight as its possible to be, if we opened up the part of our brain, our mind, that contains the pain of all the humans in the world? And yet if we didn’t, if we kept it shut, how could we live? I know we aren’t gods. But don’t we have to just do what we can? Have we thought of that? Did you? If you haven’t, than maybe you haven’t thought enough. Like me.
I still get confused with collective pain and our own pain. I still forget what matters. I still feel dizzy, like I want to throw up.
How sorrowfully convenient it is when the person you are sorrowing over is absent from your everyday life! At least in a fictional world, from a literary perspective. That was a sudden insidious and awfully sadistic thought I had about Unless, by Carol Shields with which I think I am in love.