:You walk into the room with your pencil in your hand, you see somebody naked and you say, “who is that man?” You try so hard, but you don’t understand. Just what you’ll say when you get home. Because something is happening here, But you don’t know what it is.
:You’ve been through all of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s books, you’re very well read it’s well known. Because something is happening here, but you don’t know what it is:
Living & Dying. And the moments when we realize that we are all gut-wrenchingly close to one or the other at any given moment in time. It is so strange to face the things that we want to hide from. Maybe it’s easier when we’re far away to walk at a pace with the internal circadian rhythm rather than the others who let their hearts beat slower, slowly, in their chests to avoid complete disillusionment.
Pain is funny. And weird. This journey is a tightly coiled film that can be tripped at the single shift of an uncomfortable squirm in the oft uncomfortable disposition. But it isn’t a trap, it is more of a door left cracked. Distractions. Know that it is possible to get up and walk forwards, walk towards. Maybe it is the sense of knowing and having those who remind us of this linear motion that allow us to unstick ourselves from the floor. Peel slowly, reattach limbs, breathe, continue.