memoir ghosts
Three selections from when I attempted to begin a memoir. It was going to be a whole thing. I killed it dead, but that was before the SSRI, so we’ll see what comes next.
I write mostly about religion nowadays. I wonder if any higher power listens or cares for the ongoing babble of human perspective. Why would they? Then again, I cannot presume to understand the perspective of a god. That’s the point, right? Gods know all, see all, can do all. How can a fleeting temporal oddity such as myself begin to comprehend the magnitude of maintaining the cosmos. But then, what is human nature but to empathize? If embracing heaven is to reject human nature, to reject empathy, how could heaven possibly be paradise? We are taught that divinity is the rejection of humanity, rejection of the world and embracing something higher, but what if we’re reaching in the wrong direction?
“To die, to sleep, no more,” Hamlet, Shakespeare
I’d be lying if I say I weren’t afraid of death. I am. I fear the nothingness, the emptiness, the absence. I fear the lack. But I also crave it. As always, I am caught in a maelstrom between two higher deities, one Life, one Death. And like so many things, like Sondheim’s Jack, I wish that there were an in-between. I suppose I create it all on my own. Isn’t that why I force myself into apathy? Isn’t that why I foster my own numbness? To create my own beanstalk, to beckon my in-between?
But nothing comes from nothing, I’ve always known. Creation of emptiness only comes from an absence.
And the world is always filled with matter
And magic beans aren’t real
And thus I’m trapped in my head once more
Dead but not asleep.
I told myself I’d write more. In order to have a memoir, one must have writings, musings to put in order.
Nothing comes from nothing.
And yet I find myself vexed with the same exhaustion as always, pervading through time and space alike, localizing its lacksadazickle attack upon my person. This fatigue, this leaden infection that trails through my body like a government conspiracy causes me anguish as unseen by all. How can I express my desire for action when no deed supports the claim? Always stuck betwixt action and inaction, do or don’t. Until I stop seeking to be myself and instead begin to act.
I’ve stopped noticing when and where I begin and the character stops. I’ve created my own villainess & her torture and mine is that she is too proud to strike.
smlfries 