Well the title of this was certainly more appropriate a few minutes ago, before reading my last few entries. Amidst all the despair and wandering I felt comforted; less alone, like my writing was that of another’s.
I came to this page for release. It’s been too long. Why I put it off even knowing this I cannot say. I wanted to write about all manners of terrible things, but the desire has simply dropped.
I’m not sure what demands my attention the most: the feeling of having lost art, or the recognition of how easily such things are dropped. I didn’t even remember these things I wrote; didn’t know they existed. The discovery is always fascinating.
I suppose I can still tackle the same issues with less vigor; less emotion. But doesn’t this reveal a truth about the root cause? It was a feeling as if I’d lost it: doomed to a meager and mediocre domestic pig-pen-lived life. This fear has all but wasted away. It’s still there but I will go great lengths to avoid it. Why?
I don’t know why. Except I do. I know when it starts. And I know where it leads. But perhaps I’m still learning how to remember when caught in the middle. The tenseness of my physicality has all but left as well.
Sometimes I will focus intently on this one truth: that all is controlled by the mind. Feelings, both mental and physical. And I will attempt to escape this prison upon recognition, by way of certain questions, or mental commands. Sometimes it works. Then sometimes something else pulls me out of it entirely, and it’s vital to take note of why.
I’ve had inklings that this was the case. I’m not that daft. But to have your hypothesis proven before your very eyes is something else. And it reminds me that this is the path I need to be on.
Perhaps this is the path everyone is on, or off, without realizing it’s the only path. The on-and-off being comparable to that of, heaven and hell.