January 19

What do I feel?

Repeat that sentence to yourself multiple times.

It feels flat, doesn't it?

Feel is such a horrifically inept word, don't you agree?

Everything yet nothing.

A better question: "Where does it hurt inside?"

A landscape of things: shame here, depression there, anger somewhere around the corner… Landscaped in the sense that all things derived from necessity are sculpted.

By who?

Whatever this "you" happens to be.

Isn't that unsettling? Like flesh peeling from the bone while drowning in the Dead Sea.

An entire cosmos… Transcendent hope bursting here, the collapse of providence there, ghastly screams overlayed by the most beautiful red and blue streaks of God's grammar.

Perfection, perfection, perfection, perfection.

I suffer. I anguish. Yet it is perfection.

How that hurts.

My fatal flaw is that I am forever bound to this being, and I will never transcend it.

Oedipus and his eyes.

Problem with life: people are mostly incapable of holding contradiction in their head. Grace and suffering, eternity and death, healthy and sick.

I will be surprised if I die of the body rather than of the mind.

Can I ask you a question?

Do you want to be alive?

What?

…

Despair, hope.

Death, life.

Crush.

Our core mistake is the desire to be understood.

…