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The Dull “I”

When I began writing I loved the long essay form of autobiographical essay.

Now I am so tired of myself, of writing even the slender, deceptively simply “I” thatfind it impossibly dull to do so.

What is left when one has grown so very weary of oneself?

Enlightenment?
Drugs?
Suicide?
Service?

Perhaps all, not in that order.

The I knows nothing. I know nothing.
Experience is a sequence of felt sense, pattern that turns on a dime to addiction or perception, opaque desire, and even when desire is sated, discomfort.

This is the current felt sense of the body I inhabit: discomfort. It has always been thus.
Eating disorders, unhappy childhoods, rape, assaults physical and mental, ambition, failures, love, touch sex marriage, children, embodiment in physical form – it all seems to lead to the same portal: let us be elsewhere.

I love drugs as much as I love practice. It is a prayer, isn’t it: let us be elsewhere.

Today I walked away from a lover, began perhaps to finally grieve my unending love for my husband who is the X on my blooded heart, found out he was dating, cried for hours upon hours, had my daughters come home only to observe them punch one another, and then felt the exquisite pain of my smallest child’s delicate teeth sink with rather alarming consequence into the softest part of my tricep. Blood, rage, tears, regret… on and on it goes. For all of us, every sentient being, all the time.

We took the dog outside into the warm spring dusk.

The moon reflected down on us her borrowed light.
And the patterns were suspended, drifting upward like used webs.

Quietude.
All that remains.

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