He looked at me as if he knew me,
so I gave him a run for his money.
Or was it my money? Maybe the
truth of the matter is that I barely
even know myself. If we all say
that in unison, which of us would
be comforted and which would
find ourselves frighteningly on
the outer edge of reality. Tell
me what you really think, neigh
bor. What kinds of hungry have
you known? Now I’m getting snide,
the sniveling victim of unregulated
pride, which might better be lumped
in with those other emotions that I
personally find useless: guilt, stub
bornness, jealousy, vengefulness.
Are they characteristics or emotions?
Perhaps they were once important,
like the appendix, thousands of years
ago, for various reasons – that arise with
in humans experiencing such things that
like the appendix, thousands of years
ago, for various reasons – that arise with
in humans experiencing such things that
turn the dizziness into a will to survive and
the necessary adrenaline to sometimes do so.
But they’re not me. Not that I know of, really.
They are just who I try to be, relentlessly. No
body but me. Sure, it gets confusing. But
what’s worse, I go long stretches actually
believing in certain things, what we might
call values. I’ve learned not to bang loudly
upon them, nor try to thrust them upon others.
Most of them, anyway. If you can’t find some
thing important enough to stand your ground
protecting, though.... But the worst is when,
doing my best to go about expressing myself,
of making a big production of performing with
some clarity, that which is me, wearing my own
face and being forward about it, around people
I’m comfortable enough to do so regularly, and
finding that those people, my people, in turn find
call values. I’ve learned not to bang loudly
upon them, nor try to thrust them upon others.
Most of them, anyway. If you can’t find some
thing important enough to stand your ground
protecting, though.... But the worst is when,
doing my best to go about expressing myself,
of making a big production of performing with
some clarity, that which is me, wearing my own
face and being forward about it, around people
I’m comfortable enough to do so regularly, and
finding that those people, my people, in turn find
it impossible to express in any detail who I am,
get all the salient facts rearranged, misnamed,
absurdly incorrect, well, does it invalidate
who I think you am, make me realize what
a chore it is to literally perform my self
authentically or does it just make me
question further that you are, that I am,
that we are anything but a big heap of ill
that we are anything but a big heap of ill
ogical mess? Or does it make me try harder
to find that authenticity of me and assist me
in the discipline necessary to be clearer about it?
