me, today

Some days I feel like I’ve found purpose, other day I wouldn’t even know where to look. Most of the time I search without any map, and that’s where I find myself now. All these days just end up accumulating behind me as yester-days, which seems to be the only thing I have in real abundance. Things gone by. Not achievements, not even really sorrow, just accumulated chits of desire and thought: deposit slips to a bank from which I won’t receive any return. I decided that was the only way I could describe my life: the accumulation and re-distribution of desire in particular forms. The fact that I wake up and move makes me a social machine. I take the desire to live, to exist, to achieve whatever I achieve, then transform it into forms acceptable to systems of power. It takes time: the hours I spend doing school work, working on debate, putting off desire. It takes molding: the output has to be formatted (paper writing), blocked (debate), shrink-wrapped (sex?), socially acceptable (all things). The organization and production of desire occurs through the use of discourse, of power, which creates the awful regularity and repetition that surrounds me. I can’t find any reason to value any one form of desire over the other, I only know the degree of social sanctions attached to each transgression, each nickel into the wrong slot, each moment out of turn. That there represents the nihilism of my life. The constant fear of the future, which I imagine could transform itself into something unspeakable (I greatly fear the inability to articulate and describe whatever malaise), or something irrevocable. Of course, to some degree I’m already living the irrevocable, it’s not like I’ll get back these moments that I throw to the memory hole, but I am paralyzed by the greater fear of a future hiding around the corner, and so I just keep walking down the self-same hall. I pretend to be taking myself nowhere because of the fear of being somewhere.

I know what it takes to leave this. I know as much as I can. But

Duncan