Thought of many things tonight in between my conversation with C, (movie was terrible, btw) and much of the conversation centered on books and living. I realized I haven’t been reading any truly good books for some time beyond the non-fiction and Arthur Conan Doyle was probably my last craze, but nothing deeply endearing in a way that I would return to dwell on it in quiet moments, unlike the books of last. In a way I have been inbetween my old self and some place else, and I have been lost ever since.

I feel my words stumbling and my thoughts in some other place…and often these words do not come together and place themselves suitably as they used to be, in the middle of a sentence, in a middle of a thought. I am starting to lose the fantasy of Equalia.

I wish to return in a way that inspires some dedication. How do people ever juggle exiting from one world to the next, especially in the midst of working life? I remember longingly bearing my eyes upon the once familiar text of Eliot’s J Alfred Prufrock, realizing the words did not jump at me as before.

I no longer feel safe in a crowd. I no longer dream of lines in a stream of consciousness when I walk alone, there is a sudden fear of sound, and I fumble to find replacement music.

There is much of the irony of modern living, that I am aspiring towards this and that, and yet miss out on the simple things I once loved, and sometimes can’t put my finger on what it once felt like.

I am on a journey to find myself again.


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