On one end is solipsism, mistaking the whole for the self, and on the other end is mistaking the self for the whole, identifying with one’s role. Loving the prison. Which seems a sin against selves and prisons. I suppose I worry exclusively about this end now. I suppose I miss worrying about solipsism. Now? There’s too hard a line. Too much stuff. So, worry about the role. It’s worrysome! You can spend days, weeks, at forgetting. And what does remembering get you? Some existentialist chops, so old it smells like leather oil and just-emptied ashtrays. And I suppose what they say is that loving the prison is a step, a first step, at dissolving the prison. But it seems a betrayal. A betrayal to the largeness of what could have been. And I’m betraying enough as it is.
Earthly ambition seems counterpoised to spiritual. But art is communication, right? Any job consists of communicating, over and over, one’s potential worth (and this particular job particularly); one tries to do this while listening/communicating other things. But one’s energies are expended treading water. Rising waters, they say. Who knows. I liked myself more as a hardheaded moocher. Though no one else did.
To communicate a sense of vastness, first poison yourself dead of completion.