Why is it that I think so much more than I feel?
I’m not concerned about it. (Or I try not to be.) But I’m curious. (Or I try to be.) On the playground of my conscious life, my Mind is a quick and cackling imp, running circles around a ponderous and distracted older child: the Heart. He’s looking off into nowhere particular and ignoring the probing jabs and shouts of the younger boy. His eyes focus and unfocus with frustrating irregularity (frustrating not to he himself, but to the imp, who begs incessantly for the older boy’s help with random this-or-that’s and all too rarely rarely receives it).
I wonder why the older boy won’t focus like the younger wants him to – and whether or not it would be good for him to do so.
What is a waste of time, and what is esoteric, and why am I afraid of the both of them?
I don’t know if it’s valuable to record these wandering monologues. Do they help us think more clearly, or muddle us further? I think they help me; I hope they help you. Writing is like taking a picture of thought: every idea which once flew or flickered, promenaded or snuck about, is suddenly frozen and on display. Writing is like wrestling: difficult, sometimes sweaty, and dangerous around fire. Writing is like vomiting: one feels as though one must get something out, and feels better for it, afterwards.
I wonder why thinking feels so effortless, and is so difficult to present proof of.
Why do I feel I must anchor myself with legalism, and fly with liberality as fuel?
I rest and find peace in rules. (“I must make myself sleep for a given amount of hours.” “I need to balance play with study.” “I have to-“) But I am joyful and reinvigiorated when I break them. (Have you ever walked out to stare at the stars at two in the morning? Have you skipped school? Do you know that gut feeling that you are doing something right? Do you distrust it?) Would Icarus have flown more safely with a pair of heavy boots? I can’t tell if balance is supposed to be the careful weighing of extremes against each other, or a steady stream of pleasures and inconveniences so mild that they need hardly be weighed at all.
I wonder if I am procrastinating, or preparing.