I don’t know who I am. I don’t know what I’m doing. But I know that I am you, and you are me, and that neither of us can see that.
The herb garden is beautiful. Should I water it, or just let it inevitably wither? Like the corn husks in the white bucket. Like our plans and dreams. Like the trail of waste left behind by our catastrophic egos.
The ant seems to know. There are no doubts in its movement. I have no idea. I doubt everything, even my perpetual doubt. Conviction evokes autonomy, however, and I cherish my illusion of transcendence. The ant is one confident arthropodal machine, and I am one insecure being with an awesome sense of incorporeality.
The litter strewn across the floor, to the yoga mat, paw prints on the pillow. What a pain in the ass. And the pain in my wrists. Carpal tunnel. Cat shit. Unyielding dust. Incessant worry. But it isn’t the smut of the world which harries us. It’s the promise of a “world free of smut” which makes us bitter.