More in yesterday's vein. I finished my book and promptly, predictably, with clockwork precision, (I'd add "almost beautifully", except, well, gloom isn't terrifically beautiful most of the time...) sank like a stone into unshakeable gloom. Spent a sleepless night trying to sort and swim through the mire in my head, to keep from sinking, seeking clarity where none can possibly exist. No matter how desperately I tried, I couldn't for the life of me articulate, dissect, enunciate, untangle even a fraction of the intangibles in my head. Made me wonder what hope there is of creating meaningful bonds and profound connections with other people, when all the million parts of your own mind appear to be entirely incommunicado each other.
I meant to goad my brain into substantial clarity this morning and write so much more today, speak so much more, attempt to begin to explain, at the least, why it is that a book, a certain book, can crush me so, and why it is precisely for that reason that I love it beyond definition, so futilely, and all I can come up with is the completely, appallingly pretentious - It's me. I don't mean that I harbour any ridiculous pretentions of feeling like the book is about me at all. Just that, somehow, the way it makes me feel every single time I read it - that sense of recognition, like meeting an old, most dear friend, colliding headlong with old thoughts, old ideas, old feelings, that are still mine and that I still haven't lost, regardless of the passing of time and of distance and of experience - is what makes this the most precious thing in the world to me. It's my mirror. It defines me.
Right, that is really the best I can do. Do forgive.
Right, that is really the best I can do. Do forgive.
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