Do you ever find your disappointment in yourself, or the constraints of your physicality, whether we're talking about the particular biological form you are forced to manifest, or the tight geographic coordinates you were confined to even before you couldn't leave your house, if you have a house — your body, if you have a body — do you ever find this personal limitation and sometimes even disgust leads you toward a resentment of the beautiful?
I just looked at a series of photos of dirt roads leading through fog into the woods, something I know I may have found beautiful in the past, and resented its existence because of its inaccessibility. I wonder whether this feeling is common. Whether the punctured, sucker-paunch nastiness that permeates adulthood in The Land of Debris is in part an expression of this emotional poverty. Or whether I am prone to bouts of feelings for some reason rarer, which would be worse, for me.
I'm peaceful, maybe restless, and then I see a series of images, preceded by a longer series of images, my entire day a procession of pictures asking me to have some kind of feeling about them, and I am filled with insectful revulsion. The lives we are kept from living.