I write less the more deeply I feel, as if I am afraid to look those things in the face because they will tell me to go places I do not yet know if I am brave enough to see.
I’ve had this feeling for a long time, and I forget about it, and then something happens, a dream, a moment, and I remember that I know things about myself, that I’ve felt them in the deep places between my organs and my bones, that the whole world and spectrum of existence is available to me. That I am alive but dying, that to live as I want to is to burst into flames and never extinguish.
That this knowledge is the closest thing I have felt to joy and to loneliness, and that I have not yet learned to reconcile the two.
I can feel that things are changing and are changed. Sometimes you feel the most imperceptible differences, the warming and cooling of a single degree that propels the entire ecosystem of your being into a different reality. I sense that things shelved beyond reach, things frozen to a kind of nonexistence are thawing and coming to life, and I welcome them even though I know they bring war.
I can sense these things, and I can say they are like this and like that and to some degree this might represent what it is I feel, and perhaps the tone and style might show how I feel and why and for whom and without what. And yet there are other things, places where thinking dissolves and what is left is not quite feeling either, but a knowing that resides far away from knowledge, a feeling of some cosmic pattern, some truth, some joke that I can only tell with the suggestion of a smile when no one is looking.
Sometimes, if you’ve had this feeling, the confused words above might be enough to remind you of your own knowing, and though yours will be a different memory than mine, perhaps the two will stand side by side in agreement, and we will know, yes, we exist to each other in this way too, as two souls side by side in agreement.
And so what is it that is different? Is it that I recognize something that I didn’t before? Or that a pattern changed and I felt its change as my own? Or that my thoughts of the pattern changing led it to, as such prophecies do? Or is it simply that, as Renata Adler said, altogether too much of life is mood?
That line I told you, about the world of introspection and impulse, it is my life. I think about how each thing I do seems to fall neatly into one or the other, how each is the extreme and ever more to balance the other, about how they are my attempts at the truth reached only through the back door. About how the back door is the only one that really exists, this knowing things without knowing, feeling them without words.
We are all perfectionists in such irregular, uncompromising ways. I heard a man say yesterday how tired he was of being alone, how everyone wants someone, and I felt so reassured and so devastated and the two feelings came crashing over me like two great waves, simultaneous and insistent. And I couldn’t shake this feeling all night, that I don’t know what love is, that no one does, that I am alone and always will be, that I choose and cherish this, that it is my biggest fear and greatest consolation.
These are the things I have been thinking about. Things have changed and I feel balanced precariously on the edge of some other existence I am afraid and in awe of, and so I feel that of myself, that I am afraid and in awe.