37 (We're in the swim, sinking in time, until finally we drown and go)

Here I sit. smoke pressed between my lips. in louisiana. ive just finished The Dying Animal, by Philip Roth. The writing is exquisite. The story is perverse and tender. And now I wonder..


Must everything I write be composed to the point of perfection? Must I write solely to articulate every poignant thought in my mind, and everything be my masterpiece? For if the answer is no, and the art of expression merely something to indulge in, rather than pursue relentlessly, I think that I may perish at the thought of it. Perhaps then, regardless of the answer at large, the answer for me must remain Yes. How good it feels to say Yes. When the answer is Yes, I have been given the go-ahead. When the answer is no...there is rejection in it. Not always a bad rejection, but the pregnancy of the moment is aborted with a No. New directions to turn in, sure. But the pursuit, it has ended.

Which brings me to a new question. Not new, renewed. When does the beginning start? Is there a beginning before the beginning? And if there is no identifiable "Beginning" to any one thing, or anything at all, is there such a thing as an end? I think, No. No. I have rejected the concept of an End. There is no end. To anything. Only redirection, evasion, but it persists. What persists? IT. Whatever IT is.

And with that then, I must ponder, in the realm of relationships between people, me, you, you or you, any of you, can they end? And even if you say sure, they can end, people part ways, etc, etc. Does anyone ever fully put them to rest, "get over them," get over a person? I think again, I will reject the notion. After a bad breakup, or even a mutual one, the injection of that person into your life can never be erased, only come to peace with. But even after that has been "achieved," if it can be at all, and one could possible be satisfied, it's not over.

An excerpt- from this book:

"You tasted it. Isn't that enough? Of what do you ever get more than a taste? That's all we're given in life, that's all we're given of life. A Taste. There is no more."


Sad. I think, if true, quite sad. When does one feel most removed from life? When does one feel most themselves, or at least, in themselves? When there is something to pine for. When there is the desire ignited within you to pursue... and why, why should one be thankful to have wet the palate and then be denied satisfaction?

We deserve more. I want more. I intend to have more.