Thursday, March 30, 2017
This is a wild speculation, based on real inspection and attentiveness to the little thoughts that line my heart. This could also be the symptoms of anxiety, which will pass, but in any case, this is what Miriam believes at 12 am on a Thursday night and then again at 9 am the next morning:
It seems to me that life is hard for me to grasp when it isn't the life I had between ages 0 and my early 20's. As if that was the life that was engraved (as if the brain was raw and moldable until then, and then the ability to change wore away), and now with every encounter my mind knows where I'm at but my consciousness doesn't sit right inside my body and there is a disconnect. The body is living a life, and the consciousness another. Or maybe the subconscious one and the narrator another. In any case, there are two entities not aligned and one of them seems drunk. You know that fleeing spot in the retina you see sometimes in your eye? Let's say that spot is Experience. It's as if the younger I was, the better I could look straight at that spot. The older I get (or the more anxious I get), I become unable to look straight at it, or it becomes hazy, no matter how much I try to focus. Like in Eternal Sunshine, when Elijah Wood's head cannot be spun around because his consciousness is not aware of what is behind it.
I always knew I connected to things deeply and strongly. Perhaps until my early 20's I brought into my heart everything around me; I opened my heart like a raw wound, and called it Love, and let every color of bravery wash in. And then the heart started sealing around it all: around the smells and the movement of fingers, around the sound of a voice, around the knowledge and words of being, around the stories I told, around the stories I was part of. And then my body had to let those things go, because I grew up, and had to move on, but my heart knew otherwise. My body let them go easily; my body said (October 5, 2014, on this blog:) "Change is scariest from afar. When it comes, you just live it. And that's what it is: Life", but my heart is still planted under the covers in a warm bed somewhere else, in another lifetime. Maybe back at age 5, or 9, or 11 when I was most scared. Or 18, or 20.
[I always imagined that if I was ever to rewake up in a specific moment in my past, and realize all the future was a dream, that moment of awakening would be when I was 8 (or 11?), in a very specific moment I remember, in the apartment my grandparents were staying at when they came to visit us in 1998 (or 2001). I must have closed my eyes right back then, and that moment was a moment of true Being: The moment to which I would return again if this were a dream, the moment at which until then everything was Real, and from then on everything was a dream. Or a nightmare, depending on how I would look at it.]
The older I get, the harder it is to let someone new in. Not physically, not theoretically, but subconsciously. I really wish Tal knew me since I was younger. That's what I want. That solidness, solid love from my childhood that will stretch into my adulthood. I want the person I'm with today to be the person I'm with at age 20. And it's so hard for me to fathom the fact that Tal will always know me only from age 26, an age at which my mind was no longer as authentic as it had been back then when I was young and vulnerable and new in this world. If I was with him at age 20, all levels of my consciousness would know that I'm with him, not just half of me.
Tal likes my writing and says I'm a talented writer. He suggested today that I could be like those great writers I admire, like Lena Dunham. That I can write a book someday. That maybe I can even try out different genres, like fantasy. Like that maybe I can write a whole full-length, amazing, unique book. That conversation was a pretty cool moment for me, a moment of Grounding, of being Within, and not just About. Those moments are sometimes very rare.
I'm feeling sick. It's really late at night and I'm bent over in my bed eagerly typing away at my laptop and my back is arching and aching and I'm thirsty and so tired that my head hurts. But I feel like I have to write this. And then not fall asleep for a few hours, thinking about this and about all other things that convene into me at this point in history.
Thursday, March 23, 2017
It's not me anymore.
It's the one telling the story.
I can't go back to raw experience
I'm the story I'm telling.
The letters of my life have always typed themselves up
in front of me, preceding me,
being formed as a story as I bring them forth in action,
But now it seems they are all I am, they have taken over,
just words that come before me.
I speak what is already spoken in my head.
Words are uttered in me like the pulses of blood streaming
Maybe instead of blood
It's just a flood of words.
I'm so scared and I want to go back.
I want to just experience instead of being the narrator of the experience to myself.
Now I am just a narrator.
When did I start detaching from myself?
It's not me anymore.
It's the one telling the story.
She is my experience.
I am no longer anything.
I see the things I do through my eyes but I am not here.
Sometimes I panic.
I want to be here.
Will I ever go back to being here?
Or will I always fantasize about it until I die, while being something else,
just a hovering consciousness?
It seems that slowly, since the day I was born,
I became infected,
And all that I have done, to be good
To be smart, to be sane,
To be true,
Have proved void of effect,
And that today,
Despite my wanting to be free and serene -- fuck, that's all! That's all I'm asking!!! --
My brain is losing itself... I hope just temporarily.
I don't know if it's anxiety
Or the beginning of a mental illness
But I'm scared.
I can't stop the deterioration and the detachment.
I'm hoping that a change of scenery will bring a change of mind.
Only time will tell if I'm going to become Crazy
And if my words prove to be right or wrong
Take it as devoid of meaning
Because it's not me.
I'm somewhere else.