Tonight I think I could run for a long time but my mind flitters from bright spot to bright spot, buzzing and settling on nothing. I feel no feelings except the not-being-here-ness of plugging into the internet and the aimlessness of our generation.
Henceforth what I write will be stream-of-consciousness, which I hate in other people's writings generally but when I write for myself it feels like a good thing - not the best thing, but something between a photo and a portrait - not quite a crystal clear impression (which we can never capture anyways, all memories are reinterpretations) and not a portrait where every line has been considered, where ideas are formed into neat sentences and pruned into bonsai paragraphs and it does not at all capture the mixture of profound and pedestrian thoughts that run through my mind everyday ("Why does anyone keep on living when their lives are terrible?" "Do I have enough time for a nap?")
I think that in the end the only things that matter are what we produce and what we can give and transform from what we've been given, and I've been given so much and produced so little that I can authoritatively point to and say "mine". But maybe that is the problem of living too - that everything you create is ephemeral, that nothing is certain.
This is why people have children. They are at once something you create and something you can call your own and something that definitely could not have existed and survived without you. But all those years of drudgery...that's a lot to pay for the privilege of having some(one) you can call your own.
I suppose in the end we can be made happy by just having very few things: friends, good food, showers, books...but being happy and being purposeful are different things. And while I feel happy I don't exactly feel purposeful right now. People who seem purposeful don't often look happy. I suppose they cannot be totally happy until their purpose is achieved, and if that happens, they will see another cause they need to go for anyway.
Why is it that everytime I write I end up sad? I think the imbalance of sad/happy things in the world is lopsided as to be laughable. Maybe this whole writing business just reminds me of that.