Not Thinking
Well, this is a drag. I ran out of money tonight. That is probably the least of my worries though. It only means that I cannot buy anything to eat or drink for the rest of the evening. I will survive. Yes. Survival.
But often us humans need more than survival. Some say it is love that keeps us going. Is it love that also keeps one in a perpetual argument with oneself over what is love and how to act upon such a definition? I have been accused on this very evening of being unable to act in the spirit of "human kindness." A very big accustation, indeed.
When one is accused of something that is unbearable, there is the choice of a) violent and righteous revolt against such a dreaded mistake in the act of thinking and feeling or b) self-destructive acceptance of all that is wrong, embracing with an especial tenderness the thoughts wrought upon oneself with utmost ferocity. I have, like Dmitri Karamazov, been linked to choice b), like the ball at the end of my chain. Were it not for a certain unabashed sense of things to come, an intimation beyond all that is given at any one moment, a place I know to be my home somewhere in the world I create and which has created me, then it would be far too much to digest. But seeing as there is some sort of sense beyond that which I taste and see, I have no choice at all it seems. I have decided a long time ago.
And when the waters subside, the flood is reduced to a small creek in a muddy valley, I will sit down, rest my feet in the stream, and ask myself again why I had to go through all of that just for a moment of peace.
My time is up tonight. I must pay the bill.
But often us humans need more than survival. Some say it is love that keeps us going. Is it love that also keeps one in a perpetual argument with oneself over what is love and how to act upon such a definition? I have been accused on this very evening of being unable to act in the spirit of "human kindness." A very big accustation, indeed.
When one is accused of something that is unbearable, there is the choice of a) violent and righteous revolt against such a dreaded mistake in the act of thinking and feeling or b) self-destructive acceptance of all that is wrong, embracing with an especial tenderness the thoughts wrought upon oneself with utmost ferocity. I have, like Dmitri Karamazov, been linked to choice b), like the ball at the end of my chain. Were it not for a certain unabashed sense of things to come, an intimation beyond all that is given at any one moment, a place I know to be my home somewhere in the world I create and which has created me, then it would be far too much to digest. But seeing as there is some sort of sense beyond that which I taste and see, I have no choice at all it seems. I have decided a long time ago.
And when the waters subside, the flood is reduced to a small creek in a muddy valley, I will sit down, rest my feet in the stream, and ask myself again why I had to go through all of that just for a moment of peace.
My time is up tonight. I must pay the bill.
posted by Jeffrey at 9:17 PM
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