This was 12 years, 6 months, 17 days ago

if there is a question it is of ambition and the alignment of one's self-value and the liking-of-my-want-to-do-things and the disliking-of-my-valuing-doing-things. I like doing A, but I would like to not judge myself against how much I have done A. eating is a good metaphor maybe; I like eating food. the amount of food I have eaten, that is, as long as I have actually eaten something, is unimportant to me. this seems to indicate that a kind of nonchalance is necessary and/or productive. 'really, it doesn't matter', he thought. or: 'the boy for whom nothing but X really mattered was good at everything but X'. but how pessimistic.

the questions are endless, and will continue on, questions of process, movement, control, understanding, mindset, attitude, experience. the rainy mist on one's face. dew of an early morning. the sensation of liquid tiredness running through my veins, the uncertainty of sleep, the straps of a backpack digging into my shoulders, the whoosh of a car passing by.

if I am to aim towards process, not goal, trace, not stopping-point, then it's really the process I should cherish, the feel of pen skittering across paper. and moreover, the cold mental answers are pretty simple; I mean, it's sort of obvious what I need to do, that is to go to the beach every day, metaphorically speaking, in the words of a friends' uncle, who would say that the most important thing in life is to 'go to the beach every day', and so supposedly he did. he did. I have this image of someone walking to the beach, every day, a constant pilgrimage, onwards and onwards. even at the meta-level the 'goal' of this thought process is not the question; it's the texture of the process taken towards this end-point that's important;

what I mean is to say that I am nomadic, and the city swirls underneath my feet, and I am here and there and here. where am I sleeping tonight? many places, many places. I am pregnant with the city and give birth to a new surrounding every time I exit the subway it seems; there is crown heights, bushwick, bed-stuy, stuy-heights, long island city, prospect heights, east village, west village, chinatown, soho, murray hill, upper-west-side, harlem, morningside heights. and there is five hours of sleep, and time stretches itself sideways and elongates, like a waterballoon-balloon being wrapped around the faucet, taut and tearing, tearing and taut.