I would rather suffer quietly and internally than stake my rights on another night of finger-pointing. What happens when one reaches that feeling--or even absence of it--when it doesn't matter anymore who said what and when, when it doesn't matter where anything began, you'll take anything, give anything just to have the tension go away. A part of me ceased to be, a little part that insisted on rights, among them the right to express oneself. It was a strangely compacted paradoxical part of me, a part that fought bitterly to maintain myself as a sovereign space and yet only bitterly fought as a veil or frame, because it was that part that I had carefully tried to weave into the other. It was a battle to colonize and then assimilate, and in such a way that--I shuddered to recognize--mirrored fascist thinking. I died a little that night. But maybe I became bigger than life, too.
When you love enough / you lie a lot
Ask me not what I think. I don't want to be my self anymore and I don't want to be your self anymore, I said. The sensors that registered the meeting of you and me have burnt out, not collapsed. Ask me not what I know. Let me be.
My recourse to life is through recordings of the artistic condition. Anything life-like must immediately become the object of philosophy. If I will not feel, then I will reason.