4 November 2004
Like a satellite dish
badly dented by hail, I am this imperfect parabola. Reception is fuzzy. Whole parts of signals
shooting right through the holes to the other side of me, uninterrupted and unnoticed like pennies that fall through sewer grates without a sound. Those portions of signals that are reflected reach the focal point diffused, scattered, and weakened.
I am caught in this tiresome cycle of desire. To become who I truly am. I am no longer convinced that existence precedes essence, though I'm not sure I ever was. In fact, I'm quite sure I never was convinced of that, and that I believed quite the opposite, though my shots in the dark would never have given that away.
I very nearly envy misguided people; they at least have a clear sense of purpose. But I only nearly envy them. I have no desire to be misguided. That kind of purpose isn't worth where it takes you, no matter how much fun the trip is. But as with so many things, this is not a binary business, and to live without tangible purpose is not the only alternative to being misguided.
It is not simple. If it were simple, I wouldn't believe it, for they are fictions, not truths, that are simple. (Thank you, C. S. Lewis). And in the jumble of distortions bouncing off this parabolic plane, one frequency still comes through clearly enough to be useful, as it always has. And it has plenty to say.
Seems I'm just too busy trying to get more channels.
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