Telephones are fantastic27 Jul 2006
At making one cringe at one’s own awkwardness more than should be necessary. Regardless as to how premeditated and planned a call may be. Still, it’s better than rubbing ink in old wounds (literally). Funny how one can progress from bizarre excitement at a motif of enthusiasm (enthusiasm itself notwithstanding without some kind of idol to represent it), to sadness in an optimistic way but without any means of reciprocal communication that once induced sadness (but maintained optimism) for too long such that other awkwardness may ensue, to nearly forgetting that in studying something too awesome (I fear too much in an academic sense), only to return to quiet guilt at not having reciprocated previously later in that same general sense of chronology (balanced against a sense of geographical guilt in an abstract kind of concern for those around whilst being, in mind, completely elsewhere). Then, after all that, in foolishness something transpired that was quickly regretted, but only after some time properly meditating on various stupidities could anything be forthcoming. Hence, it is now Thursday, and Wednesday passed without reply. Thursday will plod onwards, one must suppose, as excitement for study and work and (shock) social interaction is forcibly mustered. Which I suppose is less exciting, then. I would love sponteneity right now but fear it too late… no matter. There will be another time. Oh, and whilst streaming consciousness with only aftwards reflection (I cheated by knowing what I would try to include in advance in the earlier parts, I’m sorry), what was going through their heads when they proclaimed eternity? When the indifferent proclaimed eternity? What are they proclaiming? What were they thinking? I want to scream and say what the hell is going on because it’s all so foreign so strange applying a language that isn’t theirs, can’t be theirs; historically has been rejected! But the truths which our grandfathers held are now those which the fighters at the outposts rally against. Oh, yes, very variable. You advocate free-thought then thought-control then secular pluralism then eternity then both at once then you’re not making sense anymore now are you. Are you? I am hardly immune to the allure of rebellion. Ibsen wrote not literature of the revolution per se but veered close to it at times. You… no, of course not. There was no conviction in that gaze. Ephemeral humour of the melancholic variety pervades that being without direction. Oh, Ninevah–do I wish it thus? Pray not. Please not. You, too. Please. It would make certain attachments that much easier to bear; confidence in… well, it is not for me to know anymore. My fault bears heavily enough upon me even though I have thought to have revelled in it. Reviled is closer to how, probably, things should have transpired. Please free me. Preserve them; give them what you have already in power. So far away, now. I can bearly see yet look regardless, squinting to make out something. Look forward. Unconditional unfailing immovable; all I am not. Please end the guilt’s cause.