Close your eyes for a minute and imagine you are a constellation in the night sky. Write about the physical sensations and the thoughts you have.
I’m not hot or cold or happy or sad. I’m neither sleepy nor well rested. I am not peaceful or agitated. None of these words mean anything to me. Neither do the words moving or still. Since I’m always moving, moving means nothing. There’s nothing to compare it to, so a word to label it isn’t needed. There’s no opposite of or almost like or so far from. I’m always bright, so I have no idea what darkness or brightness means. I live in a singular world where I know absolutely nothing other than what is. And I don’t even know what is because I never think about it. If there is one thing only and nothing else, there’s no need to think about it. It’s a simple life, although I can’t imagine a hard one. Maybe that’s the point. I don’t imagine. I don’t know imagination exists. I hold a place in your imagination. I know this. If you stand in someone else’s imagination, what does that do to you? Does it make you more real? Or less?
Today I (re)read Raymond Carver’s, “Where I’m Calling From,” and Flannery O’Connor’s, “Everything That Rises Must Converge”. I adore “Everything That Rises…”- one of the best stories in the world. Last night I finished Roddy Doyle’s, “The Woman Who Walked Into Doors,” which I liked. It was a different style of writing, and I appreciated its differences. Parts of it were a bit drawn out, but I liked it for the most part. I started reading Faulkner’s, “The Sound and the Fury”.