Saturday, December 2, 2000
@ High Life Cafe 1900-2100 hrs
Do you ever feel an aching need for something, anything? You ask for anything but know that only something will fill that void that pains you. Some can drown this hurt, this wanting–no, I was correct the first time,need–in substances that only distract them. Personally, along with the principle need I desire to be quenched, I want to find the substance, thing, content that fills it forever.
This is not some want of material quality or quantity, or sexual fulfillment, or any of the other myriad of items and ends and pleasant experiences that we are so often presented as examples of the daily person’s refuge. This ache I feel asks for something more–although I have no idea what.
Wait. Suddenly, though certainly temporarily, I’ve begun to feel the need (and its ache) subside. Is it my position in this chair, with my chest against the bar, leaned over this sheet of paper, my feet on the rail? Is it the mocha (my second) I’ve been drinking finally taking root in my stomach? Is it even physical (although the need presents itself as such–an ache in my heart and stomach, sometimes elsewhere, sometimes everywhere)? What is this need? Where does it originate? How do I stop it? cease its effects? Should I hasten its departure?
These are tough questions for me to answer. They have deep roots, I’m certain, and it will take me a long time to find the answer, I’m almost as sure.
I hate this pain, but I love it, I think. They say this pain is not a part of my Self, only a by-product of some imbalance or past tragedy or continuously misplaced trust (over-bearing kindness, exceeding gentleness, fragility, and all that comes with an over-arching dependence on others’ moral support). They say I can work though this and become a (more) productive human being without this pain, without this need and associated wants.
We seem to have found our “vital centre” politically–for better or worse. Will finding my own “vital centre” be as bad or worse (and as boring) for myself?
We’ve all become failed dreams of Rimbauds, Hemingways, Sextons, and other feverish indulgences of our fantasies. We’ve all traveled the world in our minds’ plains, conquered nations, even our own, with fake armies, deigning ourselves at the helm. We’ve all watched the cigarette smoke illuminate the invisible.
[Our dreams have failed us, or we have failed them. Our dreams have felled us, or we have felled them.]
Words said before, thoughts thought before–reasons found not to live?