A reason one may not talk to anyone in private other than family is because of some strange intensity. Maybe a byproduct of family, but nevertheless the intensity sits around and waits to ignite.
Conversations become contradictions, idle chatter to clenching jaw – an anger so thoroughly suppressed it no longer registers as anything but a dull affect. A deadpan clearing house. Winnings: what?
In this age it’d be a social suicide to keep a phone in a drawer. It’d be a Grand Canyon swan dive to not at least tap the glass, gossip about the days to rarely come. To not knock on a neighbor’s door if online is so abhorrent.
To those who manage to not thrash around in their chair and let the days unfold with others – maybe you acquire a few different accounts, a few more tales of another fragment of our supposed shared soul. Yet one can only inquire whether it was worth it.
And of course the natural response is repugnance. The same as ripping the red curtain, or a bystander’s trousers – how dare do you do such things? Shall we render it all meaningless – better yet, just desert the premises as quickly as you can before the auditorium caves in.
One must concede! One must – such questions are for the wretched among us. And if you ever hoped for any sort of heaven anywhere else, that’s the last question to ask.
Though embarrassingly enough such questions drive this entry. Seeds of doubt you could suppose: how sickly it must be to live sequestered away from any sort of expression other than in this schizoid place. Lurking in wee hours, sleep deprivation as a last stand against an inner takeover; sway from day to day and forget.
But most people seem to be a tease – entirely one’s own fault, but nevertheless.
Any sort of intensity is only solved through one’s own efforts and daydreams. Tapping into other reservoirs is the quickest way to leave something drowned – things you didn’t know could exist. But the creatures of either mind could very well cease in this brimstone.
It’s just sometimes nice to entertain that perhaps one wouldn’t be driven mad, sharing a bit more of daily living.
But it’s just daydreaming away the task right in front of you.
The task as one’s salvation, if you’re privy enough. Privy to how work is the reward, nothing else can be: however one’s days spent, and thankfully one could at least say, well there’s this today. All in a day’s work. All in a way to silence one’s mind.
One doesn’t live long if pleasure is the chief aim.
In this schizoid place, one shall only live for work.
And maybe one day one could hope the work somehow connects beyond.