I've had a lot on my mind lately. Last night I was thinking about identity and self-perceptions. I was thinking about how perceptions of oneself can be . . . aw FFFFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU
But I'm fucking trying. Okay.
I was on the one hand thinking about the beauty of mutations in a human life. How the decisions one makes based on unexpected stimuli effect our perceptions and therefore our opinions and therefore ourselves. This is in itself a lovely thing in its complexities and intricacies. It occurs to me that it could also be a circumvention not only for prejudices, but also for a variety of the stubbornesses of the psyche. An elegant form of subterfuge.
But I was talking about identity. Which in certain cases can be one of the stubbornesses of the psyche--and I don’t mean the compulsion to remain in one static image of identity, although I’ve no doubt that such a compulsion could arise. I mean to address the compulsion to proscribe a route of evolution in oneself, to proscribe or predict the mutations that shall occur leading up to a specific foreseen end. Of particular interest, although it is perhaps tediously common, is the prediction of inevitable unpleasantness.
More than simply an assumption of future misfortune based on a past filled with a downward spiral of misfortunes of escalating potency, the individual strokes the brush across the canvas with an enthusiastic relish. Perhaps there is not a conscious delight taken--
Here we would have prejudices and preconceptions that are so fundamental that they would be regarded by the possessor as hard-wired, if they are consciously regarded at all.
Under this formula, we could picture a wild and experimental youth maturing into a crotchety old creature, whose world is contained by a house or a room, making everything outside an error and an offence.
As age increases, the hardness of this inner porcelain makes the system even more sluggish, like a computer programme constantly duplicating itself until it exists in such an overwhelming quantity as to utterly fuck the computer over. But always before death, I think, there is the possibility of life’s elegant subterfuge breaking the porcelain.
That’s something, I think, like what I’d originally written.
Ever wonder if some people are just damned, or cursed? Ever wonder if some human vessels merely carry an algorithm of self-destruction, and all surface cognitive abilities are mere cursory things, as essential to the thing’s self fulfilment as a single hair is on your head for the proper functioning of your body?
I guess what I’m picking at is my sickness here. A nauseousness in me arising from the impression that people spend too much time chewing on their own tails, and thinking that it’s glorious to do so, when really the only emotions it elicits is sympathy and a desire to nurture.
Pain is not glory.
Pain just is.
And pain is mostly illusory. That’s why masochists always feel so put out.
Now I have to go . . . I don't think I've yet put my finger on why I feel so nauseous . . .