I hate to be obsessed with myself, but that is after all who I am. Maybe obesessed is the wrong word in this situation - I’m posessed with myself. I think as myself, I act as myself. But that’s not the point of all this, is it? I keep coming back to things, or they keep coming back to me (I’m not quite sure about that); the days turn and resemble eachother, just with more ornamentation, or less. Something’s happened during that time, and adds a layer or strips one off. Nothing ever achieves stasis.

So last night I butted up against the same shore I’ve seen at least a thousand times now - pushing off from it seems to do little good. What leave if one keeps coming back? It’s not so much that it’s a bad thing. Probably not at all. It’s like looking at the mirror reflection of a time not too long distant. The details are oddly reversed. (Is this what it looked like to those looking in?) Remote things are focused - sharp words strangely blunted. But it’s not bad so much as just… different.

Have you ever gotten tangled in a net somehow? I have. Children, I think, revel in those sorts of things. I no longer do. I don’t want to look at myself in a warped mirror and laugh at the reflection - it’s too painful. Because I am warped, at odds and angles with myself, strangely shaped here and there.

Twenty-three and still looking for answers: yes, four paragraphs about different things and finally the capstone on it all. Answers. Oh, I know the answer to it all, and what his name is. That is to say, I know what my only comfort is in life and death and so on and so forth. But the fact that the world as a whole means something and draws together for a purpose doesn’t help me figure out what that thing you just said to me means. What was in that look? Maybe God’s trying to tell me something. The big questions are the easy ones, I think. Not easy to take hold of and wrestle with till they touch your hip and give you a good old-fashioned limp, but easy enough to assent to. The smaller questions are the hard ones. I know what the world means, but that sentence - what does it mean? In that sense, you’re so much more complicated than creation. Or maybe I’ve got the question wrong, too.

And so much for my lunchtime. Time to get back to work.

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