i am disgusted by this world, where my mind takes every look, word, thought, action as (somehow) my own. in a world where i am culpable for everything, i hardly can walk out my front door to dispose of trash or go to the grocery store. the illusion of all-responsible transmogrifies me into a squishy bug, hiding under a rock or among roots, camouflaged, my nondescript exterior belying the monstrous burden i have voluntarily shouldered. naturally, this disgust is my own.
i become a fugitive, escaping into sleep, where the dissonance of feeling disgust while also being the origin of what is disgusting is ameliorated by dream-logic. there, i can simultaneously be the maker and the made. i see myself in myriad faces of persons from my past, their actions also my own. ironically, where i identify as everyone, this body and mind, my body and my mind (thanks, r. descartes, d. hume), where memory sprawls back to the intoxicating fragrance of citrus trees, gates almost too tall to climb, a glittering blue pool sloshing over from a violent, inscrutable earth which i accepted as easily as breathing--become nearly inconsequential, just another n in an infinite sequence.