Re21 May 2006
It feels like this is happening more and more often. I’m not sure if it is or not… it might be I just realise these things more now. Growth in a twisted way? So many things. Conversation twists and suddenly I have folded back on myself, nauseous from sheer wrongness, a complete lack of wisdom and immaturity. Defining.
Words are just that. Getting caught in them is stupid, irrational. Eventually, repulsive. Certainly that seems to be where this hovers now. Why can’t they leave? But immersion is coming; it is a whirlpool three-and-a-half days of seven — their anathema is realised in the opposite half, but the balance-point is sub-ideal to begin with. So escape is futile; I am a part of this, now… it is too late to deny it. There is no coming up for air, trapped beneath a sheet that is held by surface-tension for some years yet. Years. What, eighty? At least it’s not 500, or more. That would be agonisingly awkward. Or maybe not. Actually, probably. I think they just learn to pretend everything is different. It’s a grand [fantastic, spectacular, fanciful, delightful – as in “grand old building”] conspiracy (there I go, caught up in words again) that occasionally shatters.
No matter, they say, sweeping the fragments under the social fabric (rug). We will go on lying to ourselves, until…