7:30 p.m. It is not August, but my mind pulls me back there, or pushes me forward. I don’t know now, and never did. But it is August, yet it is not. The divided mind.
Clean, take a walk, read a book, then read another. Turn away from a certain kind of misery. One dull enough to live with, until it is impossible. Become nothing to be happy, claims Buddhism. I already am insignificant, and this has done nothing for me, but instill such a terror that I can feel my own death, and I reject it. I want to feel alive. I want to be everything.
New information can be overwhelming. I am not a sponge, designed to soak up words and lessons. No, I am a rock; a little porous, but hard to fully penetrate. Compassion, and a life of kindness. Such noble ideas, difficult to put into practice. How can I understand and ease another’s pain, when I cannot manage to do it for myself? And who are these people I am supposed to help, when I am all but abandoned? There is no one to speak with, but invisible creatures, fabricated in my mind, depending on my current needs.