I’m in my usual space tonight: unknown.
It’s a space that has no collective origin; it is the uncreate center that the mystics discuss. It can be confused, but largely it is spacious and airy and real. There is a basic sense of floating, that accompanies me. And I am here on my chair, watching the nothing within me turn.
I’ve thought about my standards, lately, and have decided, somehow, that they are at once too high, and not high enough; some damning trapeze act across the trapezius, where pulling the octagonal black down just the wrong angle sets everything into imbalance.
A hell of a state.
It’s hard for me not to feel redundant, when attempting to be prolific, but even the greats are redundant, if you examine too closely. Those guiding obsessions that dictate every motion of the sidereal soul, sitting subtly sidelined, telling you the the truth, whether you want to hear it or not.
It is the feeling of being incomplete and too much; some Virginia Woolf platitude that’s been appropriated better, for good reason. The feeling of being unoriginal.
It’s a weird feeling, in the context of man, because it’s just the way we are; the eternal not-enough. The empty vase with claws that is digging it’s way outside you. The need to be, and the need to say, but never the satiety of a good meal, or good food.
It’s always elsewhere,