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...and Gilgamesh lost his
The urge towards self-______ is here again.
Self what? Not self-destruction; but perhaps a shade of self-annihilation and some self-escape with aspects of self-transformation.
This happens from time to time: the urge to slip away like ice cream under a brick. The urge to shift, change (from least to most) my dress, routine, hair, skin, sex, mode of speech, name, home, work, hobbies, values, sense of humour; it all has to go, or rather change, or rather stay with the something (i.e. "me") that's left behind. At least it feels that way.
I'm such a conservative dresser.
That which no longer is cannot be wounded. An old skin, left behind, is no more than a place-marking curio, like an historical plaque. It will not bleed when cut. The new will have slithered off and is somewhere else being... different, getting injured and forming new scars, but the new snake shed those too.
The catch is that snakes have to crawl everywhere.
Why this urge now? I feel death creeping up on me. It's custom to disguise yourself by inverting your clothes. Maybe death just hates exposed seams. Does anyone think it's strange that we wear the seams next to our skin? I digress. It's good to digress.
Anyway. Change in the face of death.
Everyone here looks old, sick, worn out, worn down, worn away. Going. Eroding.
I don't want to be caught up in this, but I can feel it in me.
That's one explanation
Alternative or Conjuncitve explanation
Grandmother: dead. Job interview: done. Current academic haits: unsustainable.
And so I think I'm going to dye my hair funny colours - baldness be damned.
Whether or not I take up street luge remains to be seen.
The urge towards self-______ is here again.
Self what? Not self-destruction; but perhaps a shade of self-annihilation and some self-escape with aspects of self-transformation.
This happens from time to time: the urge to slip away like ice cream under a brick. The urge to shift, change (from least to most) my dress, routine, hair, skin, sex, mode of speech, name, home, work, hobbies, values, sense of humour; it all has to go, or rather change, or rather stay with the something (i.e. "me") that's left behind. At least it feels that way.
I'm such a conservative dresser.
That which no longer is cannot be wounded. An old skin, left behind, is no more than a place-marking curio, like an historical plaque. It will not bleed when cut. The new will have slithered off and is somewhere else being... different, getting injured and forming new scars, but the new snake shed those too.
The catch is that snakes have to crawl everywhere.
Why this urge now? I feel death creeping up on me. It's custom to disguise yourself by inverting your clothes. Maybe death just hates exposed seams. Does anyone think it's strange that we wear the seams next to our skin? I digress. It's good to digress.
Anyway. Change in the face of death.
Everyone here looks old, sick, worn out, worn down, worn away. Going. Eroding.
I don't want to be caught up in this, but I can feel it in me.
That's one explanation
Alternative or Conjuncitve explanation
Grandmother: dead. Job interview: done. Current academic haits: unsustainable.
And so I think I'm going to dye my hair funny colours - baldness be damned.
Whether or not I take up street luge remains to be seen.
