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Human connection. Relationships. Suffering and saintliness. What happens without connection, when we suffer in the world invented by our minds, the strange world made increasingly strange by its isolation, becoming more and more foreign ⏤ less and less natural to ⏤ the common world.



What happens? A peculiar, idiosyncratic world develops. It festers or it glows, depending on the nature of the world that develops and from which worldly morality it is judged from. Then eventually it comes back into contact with the common world. Like a youth that left their home town young; saw other worlds and then returned to their home world as ⏤ has the youth become a saint or a monster? This familiar thing that seems possessed by the most foreign elements belonging to a strange morality that those from home struggle to understand; the signs of outward appearance suggest nothing known in their totality, but picking away at the elements, trying to recognize some meaning in the appearance of this figure, they glimpse at moments ⏤ and only for moments, so fleeting ⏤ the recognition of something that means something in their world. In a moment they sense familiarity, but it all comes apart to the unfathomable before a thought can form.



That’s enough to generate the first doubt, the initial uneasiness at the unknown, or if not then it at least leaves a gape, a moral uncertainty, it feels like the moment before a chance answer is given, knowing neither whether good nor harm will come from the revelation, and that gape is the least condition needed for doubt and distrust to form.



So that the youth returned home after a life’s journey is something like the one who returns to the world after occupying the one in their mind in isolation for so long. They’ve come into contact again. The one is no longer of their world, having developed a new morality in this other world. But unlike the morality acquired by the youth that had left and seen many worlds in common reality, this morality developed not through the influence of other peoples but developed rather according to a mind that wandered on its own. It did not come to touch humanity closer through the various aspects revealed by the peculiarities of other worlds. It rather formed itself, like a vine without a lattice, like a spine given to the contortion of a baby body never given a human touch, figuring out its own posture, writhing.




It occurs to me now that when we read we don’t really feel what we read, or at least I don’t, not the way that it’s written. Not what the writer must’ve felt in order to say those words. I’m listening to music now, I’m out for a walk. Going for a walk always seems to these days at least lend me an adventuresome peaceful mind. Everything charms me. But even that seems to be going too far because it’s not so much the grandeur or any sort of splendid experience but just the sight of pine needles through a rusted fence with a white post, the leaves of ash tree obscuring the rest of the view, and the twigs of wild rose both living and dead crisscrossing through the rusted fence. I suppose even the leaves of the wild rose feel relaxed to me, smooth, and the pine needles

(A gust of wind can be heard)

the mat of them, sprigs so fine and long—it’s fir actually, they’re the needles of fir, and they’re the colour orange of a little kid’s head, perhaps that boy whose face adorns the front of Mad Magazine, a similar colour to that except lighter, almost a tinge of silver, because when the fir needle is oriented this way it takes on a darker colour; when it’s oriented that way there seems to be a lengthy divot going up its side. Somehow that inversion of the fir needles turns the needles lighter. It begins to blanch. There are lengthy pine cones too. The cones of fir, in and amongst this mat of needles.

(More wind)

And I walk on. There’s a mission in every attempt to speak. The mission is too subtle to be known outright, and so over time, at the length of reading, however long it takes, perhaps you’ll begin to know that mission. But five words will never do it. I have this bad habit of re-reading the first pages of books over and over again, or going to the bookstore and only reading the first page. Of course I don’t get to know anything that way. If the first page begins on action then perhaps it will draw me in like a movie, but I rarely pick up books with the same mission I play a movie for. I don’t escape into books, I don’t switch off for books. And it does take effort, it takes time, but when you find yourself in them, for so long a time, reading those words—words both to you, to anyone, and for the feeling—I think you’ll find me, saying these things.

(Wind)



Temptation. I know and I don’t know the consequence. Everyday I experience the exhaustion of indulging in a high too early in the day. And yet I learn nothing by the next morning, when I am ready for pleasure again. I know it won’t do me any good to smoke, and yet I feel a pull toward it. Often I regret it immediately after, just as soon as my experience alters. I regret that it cannot be reversed, that my mind is now trapped until the next day, in this state that I cease to see any good in once I’ve entered it.

My thoughts become more active, I am elated, and the world falls back. That used to be the joy of it ⏤ the world falling back. But using it as I do now, from morning until night and over again, that’s really ceased to be a joy, as the day can hardly amount to much without a world. I try to get things done, and I do, but so much less ⏤ and it even gets by me that I’m doing less; I have this idea that I’m doing more; it only occurs to me afterwards that during those hours my mind had just been racing through fantasies that cause me to believe I really am doing what I ought to do and becoming what I ought to be when in fact I’m idle.