I like how that title is all in italics. It looks really stupid. And that is fine. I’m all about it.
I was reading earlier, about a character who is split into two minds who are unaware of each other, in order to save him from a disease…and who, in the mind that is aware of the disease, inspires artists to create disease-based artworks and music and writings, etc, and because the unaware mind saw the collected artworks of these people who knew them both, he remembered the disease…
But then something occurred to me that I must have been on the verge of knowing and just did not manage to until today: I have for some time been sinking into a reality that is all about these paranoid, obsessive-compulsive stories which I so readily gravitate towards. Everything is there…the molds, the abandoned places, the bones, the masks…the fabric. All of it.
And yet I do not feel pleased. I do not even feel surprised. All that presents itself is the feeling of fulfilling a destiny that I cannot help but fulfill, and would not desire to abandon even if the option were placed before me.
I feel like this has leached away a good deal of the agitation that so easily and so often became a frothing rage. Not that I don’t still get angry. I do. But rage is no longer my primary state of mind.