Vision of the world as a series of symbols that fly by: music I hear, ways I'm touched, thoughts I think. Each one reassures me of something I need to believe. That a certain reality is true. Political stories, though frightening, convince me that what I suspect is true, is true, of the world. My lover's touch convinces me of something I want to be true. Each obsessive thought I have, each clenching movemement, is a reassurance. That I'm still here. That I'm still alive. I imagine what it must be like to be in a sensory deprivation chamber: the physical reminders that I exist are almost gone and I am left unassured. It must be scary
What if, through meditation, through simply not assuring myself that things are true (by stopping moving, stopping listening to music, stopping thinking things that assure me I exist) I could get used to being unassured—unconvinced—uncomforted by all those neurotic comforts? I think I might arrive at a form of existence that was more realistic. Less convinced and less delusioned. I am going to try