Take me for instance/



I have been sort of stuck within some sort of barrier. I avoid the word prison because there are actual prisons. Barrier seems both awkward and mundane. A rut is a better phrase. A dogmatic slumber is another phrase. I cannot say either being almost nine years in a rut. It is not really a rut is it? It is a way of being I suppose. Perhaps bondage is the better word? I think it is okay for the situation, better than barrier. Though, I am awkward and mundane. Barrier est barrier.


Who am I? I am a collection of attributes. They seem to come together. I have body with most of its parts. I work for my parents. I have 37 years. I own those years. I have a degree from some made up school because of my thoughts circumambulate often times. Then a little degree from a Catholic University. St Edwards gave me that. I suppose I would have done better than Custer did. Maybe, but he died doing what he did- a glorious kill for the people of the plains. I am so pale my skin is purple. I have two hundred hairs. I have two lungs. I have several valves in my heart, my cold dead heart.


I cannot read straight any more. Please forgive me, for I have not been able to read properly. I see words too much. I tire easily.- Too easily. IMG_2333Maybe my body is learning how to get diabetes. I have no clue what my odor is but I feel I have waft of disappointment swirling about. Basically, I am tired and angry. I do not want to go to the ocean. I do net get that ocean feeling about big topics, those topics that are incompressible and impossible. Freud did not get that feeling about religion. Fine for him, great for him. I do not get that feeling at all. I have no sublime feelings at the moment. My imagination never over takes my faculties. That makes reading difficult.


I want to meander. I want to find a topic worth writing about. Though essays are not my strongest trait, skill, or suit. I like to roam about. The thesis statement is deplorable. That is when I write a thesis statement. People get paid to write lovely thesis statements. Hell, Umberto Eco was a thesis statement machine. People who can make thesis statements could be hailed as the few and determined. I get lost and I want to contradict myself, the insecurities of knowing something are too much for me. I use plural- insecurities- because there is rarely that one thing that ruins certainty.To circumnavigate backwards: I hate writing essays because I cannot write a strong thesis statement.


            I am writing about. I am not piling on myself. I would say I am being honest but that is not quite true. I am painting a picture, What that picture is I am not sure. I want to rid myself of uncertainty. I want to flee from this barrier. I feel like I have not one shot at describing this descent. I do not want to go deep or rise from this point metaphorically. I do not want to spelunk into my unconsciousness. I just want to ascribe, not meaning, but a general overview. I want a schema of this “barrier.” Man, I hate the word barrier but here we are. It is elusive.


            It is insane people give advice. I do not mean crazy or déraison madness. I mean legally not liable by reason of lack of reason. Though we have to give advice. It is usually stuff we have to listen to ourselves. We talk to ourselves. People want to listen, I believe we do, but we speak to ourselves.  So when we speak another listens and that other speaks back but mostly it is entwined to talking to ourselves and another. This may not be true in the least bit. This feedback monster maybe false. Though let me elaborate here—please—- people take in information from another, that is one person talking themselves and another talks to themselves around that person from a point. That point is the other external self-conversation. It seems wicked and cruel to word it that way. I worded it funny. I did that because I was fairly clear, but wanted to obfuscate the clarity. So, when one gives advice it is to oneself. Though we do not listen to ourselves. So it is… It is not really true at all. I just picked a thread.


            Beyond the hills lies madness,

It is a comfortable madness,

But madness nonetheless.


            I want to escape. Not into brightness or into darkness. I want to escape everything for a moment. Reading and writing does not transport me anywhere at the moment. It draws me into this world. I am begging everyone to flee. It is not safe in the world , from each other and we must go our separate ways. We must find each other again. All peoples of all nations must flee. Embrace our own chaos. Be with loved owns in caravans. We must flee. Then we must reunite. Like bees out picking pollen in the world. We are too wasp like, humans, we are always connected.

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