I enjoy my freedom, but I rarely know how to use my time. If I could, I suppose I’d like to indulge and give myself over to all sorts of libidinal excess. Narcotization isn’t so much a numbing or a stupefying, as the etymological origins of the word might suggest. Rather, it’s a release and a lifting of a burden. A certain clarity, sloughing off inauthenticity, as I’m allowed to be, singularly, in the moment.
Anxiety falls off, pressures of the moment, social stress.
I feel compelled to say that I don’t advocate the use of drugs. I suppose it’s responsible to say such a thing, and indeed it is. Drugs can be abused, and their use can be selfish.
Searching for an honest word. I think in the next moment: a misbegotten project. Not on this medium. I know censors will bear down on me. My future hangs in the balance as well, as I must be “such and such a person”. Entrusted with a position of power and authority – however marginal – I must take on a role of… paragon of virtue, of upright moral sentiment.
Dogs sometimes drag their anus on bare grass to fight tapeworms… I believe I read that somewhere, and even the words present a rather vivid picture.
To take on a role. That always seemed like something offensive to me. A semblance of being. To speak honestly was always the response, and seemed to be the greater imperative. Hide yourself away. There’s something tragic but understandable to it.
I’m content in the moment to let these little thoughts fall off like overripe fruit. I don’t know who my readers are, and I’d imagine most show up accidentally. Maybe even more curious is why I might desire readers, or what I might desire in having a “voice” and presenting my thoughts to the world.
As long as I keep this blog mostly for myself, I suppose it will last long enough and present itself as something of a time capsule later on… inevitably as well likely… something naive, innocent, and perhaps a little desperate… something I’ll look tenderly on later with a certain fondness.
I don’t really have any advice to give… I thought once of writing in my notebook, as if I were writing to an unborn child of mine… as if he or she would one day read these pages and… seeing myself presented so intimately, would come to understand me a little more authentically, and I suppose my suffering.