March 23, 2010

• A brain full of paper airplanes

  Sometimes I am so afraid of other people, like I arrived late to a party after there had been a big demonstration of everything everyone needs to know.  Then when I say something stupid everyone looks at me and I mutter, “I only just got here . . .” as some kind of excuse.

  Reality goes deep.  People stretch far back in their pasts, having thoughts they don’t even remember having.  And yet those thoughts shaped them.  Sometimes people can be terribly inaccessible.

  There is such a finality about writing—once the words are down you are doomed to have written them forever.  Even if no one ever sees them, they were still words you thought worth writing.  Who can support such a burden?  Every moment the weight of proper thought smashes down on us; it is a hard thing to know what is the right way to think, what we ought to do.  There are so many options, and not enough brightly blinking signs. 

  What if everyone else uses words in ways I don’t know?  When they say certain words, what if they have a secret meaning for those words that I don’t know anything about?  That is how it is I think, because when you get to know someone eventually you learn to speak their language.  Because then when they say a word you can think about it in terms of its normal meaning or in terms of what it means to them. 
  
  I guess these winds pass through, there’s nothing you can do about it.  Life is a grand scenery we can usually do nothing about, like a colorful safari that suddenly turns into an elephant graveyard. 

  The stars, our watchful keepers, see us to sleep. We rest as they shine, until it is our turn.  Goodnight.

  • 1:24 am
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