Everything is blank and flat and slow. What do I mean by that? Nothing is sharp, except in writing. What is blank? I would continue to write until I got a clue about myself, but I could write for a thousand years and compile a billion clues and I still wouldn't have a self. Self must be an illusion, a construct, a god we've created to have an image that we can say is in our own. Double intended, this construct. Nothing I write or do or say or think makes any sense. Nothing is sharp, even in writing. Everything is -- I am -- blank and flat and slow. But even that is constructed. "Meaning" is meaningless. I could do this -- say anything about myself, and it would be simultaneously both true and untrue.
Must bring myself into focus.
Today I will be a person who likes hummingbirds and enjoys math. Someone who wears a too-bright hand-painted t-shirt her mother bought for her just because her mother bought it, not because she likes the t-shirt. Someone who wears tennis shoes and black twill pants and waddles over to the south campus center to read a book at lunch. Someone who will enjoy sorting mail and updating spreadsheets. Someone who would never think about stopping, who will not be halted by the blankness of a computer screen or overwhelmed by a list of a dozen tiny tasks.
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