Being and being empty.
Being and not knowing how to be.
Being the sum of your eyeballs that want to close.
Being the sum of your eyeballs that keep on going.
Looking and processing. Processing.
Being the sum of your brain that keeps on processing when your eyeballs shut up shop for the day.
Being the brain that processes until 5am when it decides to have a change of scene and roll the shutters.
Being the body that rises in the dark and fumbles down the stairs to feed the stomach that will stop the overthinking.
Being full and being empty for the day.
I like the ordinary, the child, the unloved, the horse, the book, the repetitive, the industrial, the agricultural, the textural, the spiky, the silly, the incongruous, the sewing machine, the simple, the audacious, the transient, the ephemeral and the permanent.
I can be so definite, precise. I barely know where to turn when I have no purpose. I am doing a thing which has no end, no purpose. Is this torture or is it happiness? I can do a thing which elicits the highest praise in the tiny circle in which it is encountered. But the thing has no life. I am encumbered, for the thing becomes my responsibility. The thing is a torture because it has not lived and I must feel I must make it live. But I cannot love the thing as I must make new things. I must put the thing aside and plan a new thing. But how does the new thing find me without an outside frame? I must have a frame to make a thing that fits. Big, colourful, philisophicaly rigourous, simple, everyday? A frame that fits. But what frame fits a things with no purpose? How do I do this thing?