2001-11-14 - 6:34 p.m.

This can be nothing other than an explanation, or an attempt at one.

I feel so serious, my mind is so heavy and bound to something; an invisible object that I can't identify. I don't feel free. I don't have my wits about me - I feel so weak. But I feel as if in some way I owe you an explanation; is it that I've presented you with a multitude of contradictions, have I led you to a hall of mirrors from which you have not departed?

I don't know; I have no insight into your mind and maybe insight into another is the last thing that I want at this moment.

I want to glance into myself and to know, definitively, what it is that makes me real, unique and human. I feel so small and blind. I wish that I did not have to observe. I wish that the truth was known a priori - that I could deduce it from logic or history or from the words of a wise old man. There seem to be limits to everything; to myself, to what I can acquire, to what I can know, to what I want. I don't feel in control of everything and no matter how much common sense, how many cool, soothing words pour into me - it is all ineffective. My mind laughst hese sieges to scorn.

How familiar that is to me. Scorn. I have lost so much respect for myself - I feel as if I lack determination. I'm not in control and that is all. I am dealt with instead of being the dealer. The house of cards I live upon isn't even my own.

I want to escape from these metaphors. They are meaningless - a personal creation that has no grounding in reality. But why do I value someone else's reality more than my own? Why do we value laws, the rule of law, why do we decide to cede power to courts and think of them in some way as infallible? It is crazy! All that is man-made is just as weak and vulnerable as I am - so when I go searching for a mistress all that I ascend into is another category of stupidity. A category mistake. Or so it seems.

I want to escape from all of this. From my words to you. From my thoughts.From my yearnings. From all of these contradictions. I don't even know why I write you these words. I don't have desire.

I feel like my own patron saint. I have nothing on which to lean; no one tocall my own; I have no magic number. I have so few things. I would make a list of what is mine but what should I include? What would you include? What is yours? What is particular to us? Our desires? But were they not formed when we were children? Have they not been given to us by a third source? There are so many questions and answers that I know but can't acknowledge. I feel like one of the three stooges.

The rest is silence

troilus

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