I do not translate well. Some interface wiring has gone haywire. Here I am, there everything else is, and I can’t get there from here. Who do I think I am?

I suppose that can no longer be the question. I’ve been working on that one so long I’m dogtired of it, and no closer to the more fundamental Who am I? that lies beneath.

So the question then becomes, what is the question now? I ask, I answer, and the two events are not connected. I remain uncertain as to which question is being answered, and so my understanding remains incomplete.

My head spins with thoughts, images, ideas, voices speaking, whispering, shouting, taunting, accusing, encouraging. Confusing. How much of who I am and have been is a result of the hormones I am steeped in? What will change, and if it does, does that mean it was never legitimately a part of me?

Oh lord, this is what happens when I fish for questions. All sorts of nibbles by minnows too small to keep.

Why am I alive? Do I want to be? Why? Ah. That’s better.

Until I know the answer to these questions, some part of me can’t commit to actually living my life, rather than (as has been my lifelong habit) observing it from varying distances and with varying degrees of acuity.

Oh, I have moments—hours—eternities—of living my life, outside of habits and preconceptions. But the moments alone, even the eternities, cannot be enough for me, so long as they end. Moments of being alive must be followed by more moments of being alive, for the only alternative is to be dead. Being dead is a habit I wish to break.

As I grow older, it becomes increasingly difficult to recover from these bouts of being dead. The question arises, is it worth the struggle, if I’m only going to have to go through it again, and again? It must be possible to have life eternal—that must be what Jesus was talking about (not that I’m a Christian). Life eternal equals, life uninterrupted by moments of death, the state of numb distracted non-presence that has plagued me my whole life.

Another question: What is life? What is poison to me might be life-sustaining to another, and vice versa. Where objectivity fails, I resort to the subjective. Life is what it is to me. My personal point of view matters. Life recognizes my personal point of view.

For the sake of convenience, let’s call life God, and let’s call the state of being vivid and real in one’s own perception life–as contrasted with pallid, limp death, however we subjectively measure that state.

Lord let me complete a thought, from initiating spark to logical explication… let me complete one thought from its beginning to its end, and then perhaps then I will understand this thing called life, or God.

This entry was posted on Saturday, February 25th, 2006 at 8:26 pm and is filed under truth and strangeness. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.