As I was saying, there’s much more on my mind. Not that I’m going to record it all on this blog at this moment. Some of it, though…
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I can’t control another person’s thoughts and emotions; I can control only my own. And sometimes not even my own. But I should always try to exercise a significant degree of direction over myself. Suddenly, though I’ve known it for almost as long as I’ve breathed on my own, I realize that when I forgive someone, an enormous burden of anger or disappointment is lifted from my mind. Whether they forgive me from real or perceived transgressions, I always can forgive them. And that releases me in a sense; it release me to move on to things that merit my energy and attention. Anger absorbs too much energy that could be devoted to productive thought. Reinventing myself will require some constant reminders of such matters. The most difficult aspect of forgiveness is forgiving oneself, I think. While forgiving oneself does not necessarily require withdrawing judgment, I suspect it does require it more often than not. Forgiveness involves forfeiting the roles of judge, jury, and executioner in favor of figuratively dressing oneself in the robes of clergy.
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Ripping through billowing clouds while inside a jet airplane flying at several hundred miles per hour is, no doubt, different from drifting slowly through those same clouds in a glider. I have experienced the former, but not the latter. I’ve always wished I could find a way to go inside the white pillow of a summertime cloud so I could compare the sense of being in a thick fog with the sense of being enveloped by an entity that has more precise and distinctive boundaries. I would like to know whether the experiences. It is like being in a thick, grey fog or something more vivid and distinct, as if the soft white swollen balloons were more cohesive and substantive.
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I am drifting in and out of consciousness as I try to type my thoughts, a byproduct of sleeplessness. Obviously, I need to get more sleep than I’ve been getting. It’s just a matter of giving myself permission to sleep late, after a sleepless night, without condemning the practice of “sleeping in” as slovenly or wasteful of daylight. It’s odd that, at the same time I’m nodding off at the keyboard, I’m getting occasionally intense hunger pangs, despite having eaten a bit of cantaloupe just an hour or two ago. Weakness trails along behind the path insomnia; I wonder whether it’s the sense of weakness that makes me think, artificially, I’m hungry or whether I’m actually hungry. If the former, I’d rather not eat. I weigh far too much; is it the result of eating when I’ve tricked myself into believing I’m hungry. Or it is something else?
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I have to stop this and go shower and shave. Maybe that will wake me. For now, though, I will abandon my efforts to continue writing everything that was on my mind. I think it has disappeared into a pit formed when narcolepsy solidifies around an ill-formed idea.
