I can't help but feel incredibly sheltered, not in a manner of fear or self abasement, simply as fact. I live in a conditional subculture that is capable of providing a kind of education that may lend itself to bookishness, but not knowledge, certainly not how to retain such knowledge in a manner pertinent to incorporation.
It gives me a certain goal. I used to think, by the time I die, I would like to have the confusion sorted out.. Now I believe this goal may be impossible. What I do want, however, is to learn to live without fear. I do not say this through an idyllic sense of belonging and desire, through optimism or denial. At least, I say it perceptibly though without any permanence. Permanence is a nonsensical goal, though an oddly tangible one. It's telling in its sterility. Time is roughly hewn and existent, maybe, though potential reality and memory of it's resounding fruition. Maybe. Maybe not. I'm not pretending to know, though my chest is begging me to conclude something or other for the sake of something or other else. Oh dear, now I've upset it.
"Someone had told him The bear'd been sneaking away To the seaside caverns, to bathe
And the thought troubled the monkey For he was afraid of spelunking down in those caves
Also afraid what the village people would say If they saw the bear in that state;
Lolling and splashing obscenely Well, it seemed irrational, really; washing that face
Washing that matted and flea-bit pelt In some sea-spit-shine, old kelp dripping with brine" -Joanna Newsom
Replace Candida for Ursula the bear and flesh for cliff and you may understand the gist of the infection in its current state. It's thrashing obscenely, but not too obscenely considering the context of our current culture's standards of normality, but obscenely enough. In other words- Diflucan, you old son of a gun, lets play target practice.
My mind is as congested as my throat this evening, you'll have to excuse it.
I have been very ill, constructively so. Yes, there is such a thing, regale the X as proof, just don't let it slaughter much of me of interim and of stint. I'm sick, though definably I hope for it to become a day to day habituation of spic debilitation, not a name.
I feel a bent anxiety straining against its own lurch. It is both dull and pointed. It makes me think about art though fear, about selflessness and anonymity within its context, of audience vs creator vs propaganda-based consent vs free will. That's not all, but I must stop now.