Wandering Thoughts

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Waiting in Orly to Fly

The night is young and will be long. This strange world of waiting…

waiting to be transported…

transported back to…

When one feels unsettled, when one’s firm decisions, one’s willful resolve, seem on the verge of disintegration in the fog of precarious affinities…

but the dream, this is the realm of the night, especially a night such as this—in an unreal reality, a monstrous, barren landscape of commerce and transport, lit palely yet glaringly with fluorescence—after a day in transit and a night of restless half-sleep. But there is no place here for sleep and reverie replaces dreams, but not pleasant reverie, green and flickering, the sun dancing through wind blown leaves, but the dark reverie that has wrestled with my wish to sleep for nights. I am not a peaceful man, a man content and willing to accept the will of the gods. No, I am a man at war—with the world and with society, indeed, but also with myself and those I love the most. Such a monstrosity, a nightmare. Yet apparently so calm…

Where is our failing? In the fear of conflict, of disorder. In the desire to keep our lives calm and orderly, peaceful and easy. We claim that we want to wreak havoc on society, on every authority, all rule; we claim that we want the upheaval of revolution, of anarchy. Yet we fear the entry of these wild forces into our own lives; we seek the easy way out, the way of diplomacy and tact, of suppression and self-censoring. Our own passions and desires scare the fucking shit out of us. We wish that we could achieve the shallowness of those who are content with Ben and Jerry’s ice cream, the Simpsons and their own mediocre relationships: a tepid “love” partnership, friendships based on the camaraderie of mutual humiliation and disrespectful tolerance and the daily encounters of no substance that create our banal survival. And we do lower ourselves to this level in practise in our daily lives. It is safer, easier…

But inside we still burn and in our burning suffer in anguish. We become morose and irritable, depressed and prone to rages. In drunken fits, the passions that we’ve bound up in straight-jackets in order to maintain our own “peace” break out from this imprisonment, deformed and monstrous. And in the morning, we find ourselves apologizing and picking up the pieces of the ruins we have left in the wake of these monstrous passions. And the passions are locked down once more to further deform. We regret these little disorders, these little upheavals, yet claim to want the great upheavals. Do we really know what we want? Do we really have any clarity, any concept of projectuality as an immersion into life as a self-creative storm? Can those who fear and apologize for small upheavals destroy the present social order; can they destroy the totality of that which keeps the fullness of our lives as a wondrous chaos that we create for ourselves from us?

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