Forgetting Words, Remembering Messages
Milan Kundera says, “Our period is obsessed with the desire to forget, and it is to fulfill that desire that it gives over to the demon of speed; it picks up the pace to show us that it no longer wishes to be remembered, that it is tired of itself, sick of itself; that it wants to blow out the tiny trembling flame of memory.” After spending several consecutive days with primarily myself for company – often blindfolded and laying down quietly – I find myself returning to my selves . Childhood me that was playful. The me that had vivid imagination. A me that doesn't give a flying fuck for the time of day. Sleep when tired. Eat when hungry. Eat what I want – nothing more, nothing less. I am the person who fits perfectly into my own holes. I am the answer to my own emptiness. I've heard this before, but it is meaningless except when you feel it to be true. When it resonates with you, then it is power. All truths are limited in their truth. Truths depend on what level I'