I return to the past for traces of temporary comfort; moments in childhood or half-conscious memories. Sleep affords me a paradisal retreat to imagined cities, landscapes, people. Theories and academic concepts are dead. They are buried and often resuscitate for fastidious purposes. In real life, between living and breathing a horror is formed. The effects are circumvented, delayed, pushed aside. I hear it galloping, presenting itself again; shameless, loud, caustically defiant. My body stands in the center. I prepare for the opportunity to witness my own death. Should I rise again, triumphant in spite of myself, in spite of you, I will remain unconscious of power, I will be unorganized, deprived from the prospect of painless happiness.
I am too weak to resist the noise and disorder inside.
Are these called feelings?
