meandering thoughts: a study of an unprincipled mind
They are not very well formed, for I caught them as phrases that passed through my mind and set them down without changing an iota. I want to observe what happens - what goes willy-nilly through our craniums that may hold some meaning - or be senseless formings.
We most treasure the things we cannot have. Heathcliff may be happy with Catherine- or not. Love does not come solely on the virtue of existence - a soul that is like one, merely - but also on the virtue of action. Is it even enough to have one's heart's desires? Can the sinner's repent be retracted? For there may have never been one to receive it.
My own thoughts and desires, all caught up in something so insignificant and reprehensible as this - a cigarette. ( a woman sat down to smoke, and exhaled towards my head)
I feared that my mind would atrophy in this incessant carnage.
The most uncomfortable thing was the boredom of ...(not being allowed to employ one's mind)
Utterly arrested in this state of boredom.
Sometimes I thought I imagined it, a thin whisp of truth, a paltry vision of passion.
We throw at ourselves hackneyed verses, phrases that come naturally to our minds but to the cynics spell a lack of talent.
What do we want? Total freedom? The right not to perjure ourselves? Indeed, all sentiments are vain in the face of overwhelming majority. Our minds are quite adaptable - we could have adapted to a senseless existence of being the only human on earth.
We are insufferably held down by relativity.
And we connot accept inconstancy in others, though we ourselves are myriad creatures. We'd like to be safe, we'd like to claim one or two words to characterize ourselves. And yet we also want to be able to use all the words in the universe to explain who we 'truely' are.
And I wonder whether my fervent desire to own books stems from the fervent desire to stamp the books on me. The more the better. Rather, they, once owned, are easily neglected, and I am always lascviciously searching for more to fill my insatiable shelves.
We most treasure the things we cannot have. Heathcliff may be happy with Catherine- or not. Love does not come solely on the virtue of existence - a soul that is like one, merely - but also on the virtue of action. Is it even enough to have one's heart's desires? Can the sinner's repent be retracted? For there may have never been one to receive it.
My own thoughts and desires, all caught up in something so insignificant and reprehensible as this - a cigarette. ( a woman sat down to smoke, and exhaled towards my head)
I feared that my mind would atrophy in this incessant carnage.
The most uncomfortable thing was the boredom of ...(not being allowed to employ one's mind)
Utterly arrested in this state of boredom.
Sometimes I thought I imagined it, a thin whisp of truth, a paltry vision of passion.
We throw at ourselves hackneyed verses, phrases that come naturally to our minds but to the cynics spell a lack of talent.
What do we want? Total freedom? The right not to perjure ourselves? Indeed, all sentiments are vain in the face of overwhelming majority. Our minds are quite adaptable - we could have adapted to a senseless existence of being the only human on earth.
We are insufferably held down by relativity.
And we connot accept inconstancy in others, though we ourselves are myriad creatures. We'd like to be safe, we'd like to claim one or two words to characterize ourselves. And yet we also want to be able to use all the words in the universe to explain who we 'truely' are.
And I wonder whether my fervent desire to own books stems from the fervent desire to stamp the books on me. The more the better. Rather, they, once owned, are easily neglected, and I am always lascviciously searching for more to fill my insatiable shelves.
posted by Mignon Chang at 9:31 PM
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