deer die with their eyes wide open

gggg we should really do personal posts more often instead of just writing but

do you ever feel like more of a concept, an idea, than a person? we do often but i am not sure if perhaps it is just born out of self-loathing, some miserable feeling of being less than a collected connected being with all our pieces in order, a feeling of being less, less. it does not entirely feel that way, though — not always, not for every disarrayed piece. not for everything
 

the thing is that 'noah' is vague and intangible and undefinable: he is not our blood, he is not our brain, he is not our heart. he is consciousness and nothing more and in that i suppose he is truly the essence of nothing in us. our body means nothing! the body is host and inside of it is where the person, the being, really lies. in a sense it is a cage; a cage of flesh and blood and bone, bone like You truly You are stuck among the arching frame of your ribcage as behind prison cell-bars. and you know our skin feels sometimes like it is the only thing keeping us together and we could hate that! if there was not a part of us deep down that is rational and logical and knows over believes (and that part we could hate, too) we would almost think that our skin is keeping us trapped—
 

like it is a foreign wrap on our innards, a bandage pulled too tight into numbness, only there is nothing to tighten down on, no innards, not really. it is a loose net around our soul but somehow it feels suffocating also. likely that is just in a metaphorical sense, likely it all is, most likely of all we are wrong because we are flesh and blood, can we not feel it? can we not feel our pulse and our body heat and the weight of our flesh? of course we can; it is dragging us down into the earth always. but deeper down, inside of even that, there is more or perhaps less

our soul is made of air if we have one i think. i think, i think it is nothing, personified nothing, the smoke of a dullahan’s severed neck-to-head, the film of mist lying on the surface of water where nymphs and sirens and lake-ladies reside, it is pure spirit of life and death and what else could a soul be? below our blood and flesh that is what i like to think lies. smoke, thick as highland fog, unbreathable and i suppose unliveable! but no, no somehow we live. oh we live. we live forever—and every one of us if it is what we so choose, what you choose—and within that all we die a million deaths and break through from a million rebirths before we ever manage to raise ourself into anything more than flies buzzing in the silent infinite everything of the universe. and still yet we go on.

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