Stability and tedium have never been part of my strength. Up has been a place where I am, not where I go. This has left me alone. The inability to hold some microcosm of an unvaried existence, a day to day that has only minor ebbs and flows, is a problem for many, for me while I try to avoid the incapacities that solitude yields. This, I have come to realize only just now, randomness of existence is what people fear most: the unexplained, the phenomenon that is pervasive yet we try to interrupt, the dissonance of movement.

As a point of capacity for the unknown, how is one to negotiate the tide? A journal for stability, the admittance of error and correction, the wayward thought that pure honesty resolves the majority of daily conflict? It has all been conflated. I have a desire to rescue banality, to invade the people in my life with consistency if only it would mean a relative communion of two minds that remains affective, effective, and does not disrupt. If there were more action, more physical movement, paradoxically, this may not be such a problem.

This is the issue artists face; why artists have a reputation for being irrational and problematic. For the movement of distance and silence requires a certain stasis for prolonged periods; effectively leading to madness, the inability to maintain a level field of emotional responsibility, and deep excavations into the minute and brief realms of passion and desire. But what comes when the desire, the passion, subsides and the emotion does not? Breton, Aragon, and Soupault all felt the effects of Vache's madness, set out in search of an unconditional reality, only to come to terms with the reality that is never 'real'. The acceptance of this proposition is the plight of humankind; but more pertinent, it is the plight of the lover. On what basic foundation does one begin to trust emotions, specifically something as (foundational here is a Western concept, perhaps, but it extends throughout all cultures, as can be found in the literary and/or oral history extended even as far as the moon) non-filial love? At what point is projection projection, and when or where is it actually a reading that becomes inverted projection? And what if it is neither? What if it is 'real'? Were do we extend ourselves from there?

It is anti-logic. I should not be pained; I can do no other, I cannot manipulate or otherwise alter a certain set of conditions that have been laid out by the motherless moon or tides of silence that invade our daily lives. Yet I am pained. I should not long for something more than what I have when what I have feeds me, allows for the experience of desire to be quashed on an irregular basis (but fulfilled in one way that does not encapsulate the full form of what is desired, but enough to diminish the pure and constant fear that distants will grow and silence will be filled as it is cut away and grows deeper, stronger, less willing to divulge itself to the outside that brings words), but I find myself wanting more and more and more of it.

I need to stop occurring to myself everyday new. I have written letters to Jude that extend beyond the expanse of one simple room, one simple universal extent of madness and honesty. Letters I cannot send. Words that are known only in their silence, only in their honesty and admittance of crimes against emotion. Words that involve the pain of one reality that I can no longer recognize.

My name is Jack. I deny all forms of emotional integrity. I am in love with a woman. I do not know how to resolve this paradox.

"...and the threads will pass through the needles
of wind my dreams that need to be changed like bandages..."