I have been writing sober pieces for too long now to be able to write about the kind of heavy existence I have been experimenting with.
I feel that, to use the letter “I” with some responsibility, one must first understand its presence. Its mass. One must also wrap one’s mind around the fact that one plus one makes two and that a mass of ones will never speak louder than the one that speaks privately to one’s self. Once this realization has been confirmed, one must ask: am I confident about my oneness?
Whenever I hope to go beyond the critical thinking that my sober writing demands of me, I feel dry and wonder if I ever had anything remotely poetic to share. Have I ever gone beyond the realm of immediate life and if not, is it even a terrible thing? Is being “beyond” cold analyses anything close to being full of blood? Or is it a sin to be so passionate about the quest, but not passionate enough about the undreamed of?