A Very Merry Unbirthday to Me
My blank wall makes me feel that odd sense of nausea which Sartre atriculates so well. I feel Calvino's abyss all to powerfully, but I am glad that every time I take a leap of faith into the void, my bridge made of words and stories catches me just at the time when I should be falling helplessly into nothingness. There is no longer anything being defined by the emptiness I see and so I am now forced to face the white awfulness of the wall. Oh well, tomorrow I will read Foucalt and get a whole new idea of my helpless situation in the world. At least it will provide me with the words I need to move forward towards a nonexistent goal over the expanse which I no longer feel the unbearable vertigo I should feel. Goodnight, perhaps I will indulge in this dangerous pasttime which is writing tomorrow. I certainly hope I have something to say.