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I feel like I am torn between two sets of compulsions, the one that says what I ought to do, and the one that says, nah, screw it.
I woke up this morning.
That's important. I woke up this morning. Around 9:15. Real morning. Not 4 or 5 a.m. when it might be morning. Not 12:15, when it used to be morning. But really what I think of as morning. Childhood morning. I look outside and see the sun hitting the surface of the leaves on the trees, just the ones highest and furthest out, There is a wind, very slight, that makes this tree I'm watching look ...
(Here I was going to try to use some metaphor about women or something, but it looks like a tree being beautiful.)
That's another thing. Suddenly, I'm bad with metaphor. I feel like there are too many layers between me and reality. I am so aware of all the layers we put between ourselves. We dress up in clothes and shake each other's hands and congratulate ourselves for not being animals, yet it is just this highly ritualized and usually hypocritical form of sniffing each other's butts.
Maybe I have been a furry for too long.
I know I cling to words. Perhaps too much. I have collected books, music, made lists and lists and files and written thousands of journal entries, perhaps mostly useless. I am thinking about a speech fast, where I would not talk the whole day. But, no Internet. No e-mail, no ICQ, no LJ, no MUCK.
A lot of self exploration has revealed the obvious. I talk as a nervous habit, the fear of being misunderstood.
Of course, it's much deeper than that. The black-and-white standards of my church I took quite literally and spent much of my time trying to find out if what I was doing was good or evil. I mistrusted my motivations.
Now, much of my life, all things lead to good or bad.
I suppose I could start keeping silent by only putting explanations here. Then they would be available to me, and other people might look if they chose.
I woke up this morning.
That's important. I woke up this morning. Around 9:15. Real morning. Not 4 or 5 a.m. when it might be morning. Not 12:15, when it used to be morning. But really what I think of as morning. Childhood morning. I look outside and see the sun hitting the surface of the leaves on the trees, just the ones highest and furthest out, There is a wind, very slight, that makes this tree I'm watching look ...
(Here I was going to try to use some metaphor about women or something, but it looks like a tree being beautiful.)
That's another thing. Suddenly, I'm bad with metaphor. I feel like there are too many layers between me and reality. I am so aware of all the layers we put between ourselves. We dress up in clothes and shake each other's hands and congratulate ourselves for not being animals, yet it is just this highly ritualized and usually hypocritical form of sniffing each other's butts.
Maybe I have been a furry for too long.
I know I cling to words. Perhaps too much. I have collected books, music, made lists and lists and files and written thousands of journal entries, perhaps mostly useless. I am thinking about a speech fast, where I would not talk the whole day. But, no Internet. No e-mail, no ICQ, no LJ, no MUCK.
A lot of self exploration has revealed the obvious. I talk as a nervous habit, the fear of being misunderstood.
Of course, it's much deeper than that. The black-and-white standards of my church I took quite literally and spent much of my time trying to find out if what I was doing was good or evil. I mistrusted my motivations.
Now, much of my life, all things lead to good or bad.
I suppose I could start keeping silent by only putting explanations here. Then they would be available to me, and other people might look if they chose.
