There are several things afoot that escape my comprehension. But that is to be expected of the human condition, I suppose. What does it mean to be a poet? One asks. What does it mean to not be one, then?
Every time a break in one of my routines and categories begins to gnaw at the back of my mind, I try to remind myself that the breaking of routines is the very essence of life. Change, evolution, devolution, all that stuff. But are these reminders any good? Would it not be helpful to simply discard all appearances and attachments and just stick to the present moment? I guess it would.
I have yet to really understand what it means to be alive. Does it mean accepting all the love my friends and family have for me? Returning it back a hundredfold? Does it mean taking a nap? Does it mean cooking a warm meal just for myself? For others? Does it mean something bigger? Something far more infinitesimal? Do I let life affect me as usual, let it bash my soul against rocks and caress it lovingly at the same time? Oh man, is it time already for hermit mode? I don't know.
There are so many books to read, so many more to write, ah! I guess it all comes down to the spaces between time, once again. We will return to regularly scheduled programming soon.