it is entirely possible to desire too much

Journal entry. Monday, 25 May.


Every day I'm preoccupied with the struggle of producing something new--a defining moment, a voice, an action--to mark me as unique to constitute an answer to the question of "who are you?" or, more often "who were you?"
Every day I'm faced with the same question and I wonder if I'm destined to be remembered for refusing to answer. But still, my "answers" are no longer answers--no single solution could possibly gather up all the loose ends and frayed arguments that result from my human presence in this world.
So instead of answering I end up producing an enormous supply of commentaries and ramblings on questions of myself, but the nagging insistent thought that remains is how long this pathetic commentary could stay useful, or even entertaining.
Am I worthwhile? Do I make sense?
So I continue to look to seek while suffering at the hand of my own self-awareness, even as this suffering unfolds a kind of existence that makes such awareness increasingly impersonal and difficult to reconcile with the self. I don't know if I should thus abandon awareness to live solely for the self or pursue awareness to replace the self.
It becomes so difficult, therefore, to imagine me.
It becomes so difficult, I mean, to reduce my life to a single, allegorical truth.
I am both the narrator and the spectator of my experiences, although I desire to be neither.