I have come to the tentative conclusion, as I sit here this evening in my quiet illusion, that the more real I am to myself, the more ambitious I am, the greater my need to fulfil, and the faster I need to move to fulfil it.
It's full on, full speed.
My reality seems wafer thin, and if I slow down or stop, I'll fall straight in, to what I don't know. Oblivion perhaps? A deep dark grave buried alive and no way out. Or endlessly falling through a Mandelbrot set.
So I keep moving.
Goal after goal, after goal, after goal, an endless pursuit of what I don't know. Because whatever I got, what I thought it was, it was not.
The more real I seem to be the harder life gets, the more other people matter and their actions hurt. The more I need shields to deflect.
So I come up with interesting ways to cope.
The less real I am, in contrast, the less I'm scared, the less I'm anxious and worried, the less I'm inclined to break down.
I don't mind silence, being alone, and ignored. In fact, I invite those things in, never bored.
I'm more and more below the surface, or is it that I'm way above? I can't tell. Regardless, it's slower here, I see more, less absurd.
It's quieter, less frantic.