Confession
Unlike Rousseau, I take no perverse pleasure in accounting my flaws. I find
my life is unbearable. The only thing I can do is sleep. Sleep is when the
demands of the body overcomes the mind, stuns it. Sometimes even my sleep
is invaded by a nightmare.
I once thought that genius would create sense out of the senseless world;
reveal patterns out of the seeming chaos. That is a ridiculous supposition.
A heightened consciousness merely makes everything more unbearable.
The senseless becomes agonizingly senseless, lodges itself in the marrow
like hot lead.
The only things that avert consciousness are intoxication, sleep.
The things that aggravate criticality are mad love, mediocre love, unreturned
love--all
of which are attempts to communicate with the self or one whom one mistakes
for the self.
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