Can I move on before coming to terms with my herstory? And, move on to what? The cat decidedly demands my attention. Or the child or the man or the kitchen. Interrupting my concentration. As if I don't have enough distractions already. I need to think. Or, to not think. But am I then? Descartes' "I think therefore I am" makes sense, but I seek Buddha's wisdom of pure being. Is the period of retrograde planets to blame for this nonsense? Return, reframe, reform, repair, repeat, reshape, rewrite, revisit, reconsider, remember... Sages encourage to live in the present. But I realize there is a lot I have misunderstood about the past. The subconscious, or whatever, presses me to question. What does it mean to be a philosopher? What does it mean to be a nexistentialist? What does it mean to think or not to think? I'm not sure what forces prey upon me, and I detest my existential chaos. Random notes appear from everywhere. Incomplete reflections, inconclusive connnections. Doubt. Fog. Is this the philosopher's fate? Insanity with sudden bursts of clarity, inexpressible and undescribable? The urge to escape the unavoidable dances like a temptress before me. Mysteries that unfold ever so slowly test my imapatience. From the depths of unconsciousness someone desires to be heard. A dormant beast that dreams. Its tentacles tickle from beyond and penetrate into my daily duties demanding attention. Will I heed the call?
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