what's not
what is
not
what is
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Monday, April 19, 2010
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!
i'm back here again! the place in which i recurrently find myself believing that this is the only way i ever am.
i'm going to pirate my diary, because it'll make me feel good.
::
... I think I enjoyed myself. I mean, I remember my face contorting into smiles, and laughter issuing forth from my mouth - or, at the least, some chuckles and chortles. As far as feeling, though, I recall only the familiar awkwardness of anticipation of an emotion that I was unsure how to feel, the unease, of a sort I'll attempt to conjure a description for. Maybe it's the subtle, persistent and unavoidable sense that what I feel is a synthetic creation, a crude one at that, the foundation of which is a void, an apathetic observer - creating the "emotion" in order to appease the sense that the feeling "should" be there where it is not. I feel because I remember that I ought to, not as a response to the stimuli of the experience, directly, but because of an appraisal conducted and resulting in my conclusion that a certain emotional response would be appropriate.
Or maybe I'm bullshitting myself. Maybe I do feel something during the experience, but fail to remember it; or maybe I'm convinced that I feel nothing as the experience goes on, thus thwarting my ability to feel by anticipating feeling nothing and pre-empting any possible genuine emotional response with my chosen synthetic response.
I should write in this manner while I'm "feeling," and see whether my exploration/pursuit/search ends at a living, reactive core, or at a calculating void.
Right now, though, I feel like a shell, and I'd really rather feel raw and alive, vibrant and full of potential to feel my experiences.
So why this sense of regret, or how does it exist, if there is nothing in me that feels? I find that my desire to feel, my longing for emotion, is itself a feeling, backed by emotion. Cannot it be more dynamic? Can it only behold and desire, but not possess or be anything other than what it now is? longing?
Was just re-reading some of the better stuff (pertinent to what I'm pondering) near the beginning of this journal, and realizing that I've got a great foundation of theory (philosophy and belief), but am deficient in my ability to practice it, to enact it in my life and my separate experiences within it.
I just created the realization of something already existing. Of all the time I'd encountered three, the great significance of three to me, I'd yet to realize that I am three, not two.
Adam. Eve. I knew these.
The world. Our environment. The Composite. I'd failed to recall this me.
The Crier.
Not the emotion.
The Crier.
Not the reason.
i am earth moulded.
I am we three.
our inverse must be
together, we become the harmony that forms us Each.
::
i found some journal entries from 2002; they explore the same sense of not being that seems new to me every time - eight years ago, i wrote of it; eight [months, weeks, days] ago, i thought i was feeling it for the first time. man. that disharmony bug is a tricky summbitch.
i'm going to pirate my diary, because it'll make me feel good.
::
... I think I enjoyed myself. I mean, I remember my face contorting into smiles, and laughter issuing forth from my mouth - or, at the least, some chuckles and chortles. As far as feeling, though, I recall only the familiar awkwardness of anticipation of an emotion that I was unsure how to feel, the unease, of a sort I'll attempt to conjure a description for. Maybe it's the subtle, persistent and unavoidable sense that what I feel is a synthetic creation, a crude one at that, the foundation of which is a void, an apathetic observer - creating the "emotion" in order to appease the sense that the feeling "should" be there where it is not. I feel because I remember that I ought to, not as a response to the stimuli of the experience, directly, but because of an appraisal conducted and resulting in my conclusion that a certain emotional response would be appropriate.
Or maybe I'm bullshitting myself. Maybe I do feel something during the experience, but fail to remember it; or maybe I'm convinced that I feel nothing as the experience goes on, thus thwarting my ability to feel by anticipating feeling nothing and pre-empting any possible genuine emotional response with my chosen synthetic response.
I should write in this manner while I'm "feeling," and see whether my exploration/pursuit/search ends at a living, reactive core, or at a calculating void.
Right now, though, I feel like a shell, and I'd really rather feel raw and alive, vibrant and full of potential to feel my experiences.
So why this sense of regret, or how does it exist, if there is nothing in me that feels? I find that my desire to feel, my longing for emotion, is itself a feeling, backed by emotion. Cannot it be more dynamic? Can it only behold and desire, but not possess or be anything other than what it now is? longing?
Was just re-reading some of the better stuff (pertinent to what I'm pondering) near the beginning of this journal, and realizing that I've got a great foundation of theory (philosophy and belief), but am deficient in my ability to practice it, to enact it in my life and my separate experiences within it.
I just created the realization of something already existing. Of all the time I'd encountered three, the great significance of three to me, I'd yet to realize that I am three, not two.
Adam. Eve. I knew these.
The world. Our environment. The Composite. I'd failed to recall this me.
The Crier.
Not the emotion.
The Crier.
Not the reason.
i am earth moulded.
I am we three.
our inverse must be
together, we become the harmony that forms us Each.
::
i found some journal entries from 2002; they explore the same sense of not being that seems new to me every time - eight years ago, i wrote of it; eight [months, weeks, days] ago, i thought i was feeling it for the first time. man. that disharmony bug is a tricky summbitch.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
just went to edit the previous post
and discovered that it had the exact meaning intended while writing - however, had forgotten what serves as the messages' source: the sun and the night; and the observer, providing the flesh of the child, life.
, the animated inert
, the animated inert
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