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2001-07-19 - 9:25 p.m. I do not know that I wish to look into myself. Introspection will sometimes push - but just as easily it may pull you away. Am I something other than a donkey or an ox? I have desires (and the ability to rationalise them). I have requisites (and the capacity for independent attainment). To what do we owe the presence of scales and arpeggios in music? We measure. We gaze. And some of us are so fortunate that our haphazard mirrors do not only warble back to us. The nightingale preceded Keats, and did not die when his ode to her extinguished itself. I think I may be happy in spite of myself. I lack a love. A mission. I am surfeit of nothing. Extraneous. A tangent and tidbit. And if I repeat to myself that there are no guarantees? Je me souviens, je me souviens - we are not born to do anything. 'Physician, heal thyself', said St Luke. If I allow myself a soul - are we each of us intimately endowed with means to such an end? Is happiness a matter of words? "Convince yourself." But if I haven't the will? From my head to my foot I have become you. tell me how to forget, how to effect such a transformation. tell me who or what to gaze at. troilus � � |