impersonal

I have this thing where whenever I am pissed, I shall protest my hatred in silence. I shall not talk, but allow myself moments of coldness that can prolong to days or weeks. I shall walk with a blank expression to my face and hover to each corner of the house. I shall look at my face in the mirror and be surprised by how in a space of twenty minutes, or two kilometers,  distance between my house and the train station, I am transformed. I am left here to die, and here my room is the only sanctuary where i shall not speak to anyone. I feel neglected, having passed through days of constant walking at nights and laughing madly with the people I am comfortable with, talking of whatever obscure topics and analysis I have made. Here I retreat to my solitude, and lament to my father that no longer do I feel close to God. I lament to my boyfriend that I am bored. Maybe it is the shift in the environment, where one feels suspended from one state of cheerfulness and another of total solitude. Maybe I am transitioning.

denial of the elevated

Perhaps the key is to remove yourself completely from being to attentive to the other until one day, one finally loses hope and scuffle somewhere else. She tells you she is “bored by those cult” writers, those being Palahniuk, Plath, Salinger. You are disgusted by her lumping together Palahniuk with any of your favourite writers, but you remain calm to her. You were introducing Barthes to begin with. He is of a different kind.

Enlightenment – the virtue of having being elevated to a certain position, feels herself better, where one begins to see clearly of a situation and begin to reproach it. It is all good, as one always pass from one stage to another, or in this case, one level to another, for it is an ascent, a vertical one, not where one moves but still lie on the same plane circling around, doomed for repetition.

But to annihilate the past, to the point of denial of one’s own self (or what once was), is to me foolish. One has to embrace all aspects of growth of one’s own self, and not to abandon things but to view things them in a different light. It is not removed from one’s sight, for one is elevated but not displaced, hence it is merely a difference in a point of view, in interpretations relative to one’s own position. 

But she only wants to look upward, to look into the heavens oblivious to everything else. I am suspicious, but I embrace this nevertheless with a certain annoyance. Have I myself become another aspect of your denial, and is thus tossed into alongside amongst your definition of your cult writers, irrelevant and rejected?