Tuesday, September 22, 2015

The paralysis of analysis.

I had a difficult session with Ranjana a few days ago. Really languid. I felt intellectually vacant and distant from our conversation. 


It took me another couple of days to get back to writing this post.

Every once in a while I get to this place where I ask myself about the perils of self-reflection. Am I not hyper-critical of myself? Can't self-reflection eventually turn into masturbatory flagellation? It's like I'm a chimpanzee enamoured with my reflection, stuck in this space of first-time discovery of the self.  

Is this what I look like? 

Like a magnifying mirror where unseen pores are now as large as the moon. 

Is this what I look like? 

Isn't the body disgusting?

This selfie culture of best angles, Oprah-lighting and 45 shots to get one where you don't look, like, well, like yourself. 

I don't want to look like me. I'd like to look like her please. 

This place where my mistakes are some easily remembered and my triumphs are so quickly left behind. 

How can I be so aware of my flaws, but know so little about other parts of myself? 

Why is my depressive muscle so much stronger than the other parts of my personhood?

How do you practice something that is alien to you? 

How do I live a life?

I'm in my 30's. Haven't I already wasted so much of it? The experiences I've collected are not happy ones. But is that permanent? Can I serious, shitty time be moved away from? Can I grow, up and out?

I reject my maturity. 

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