...and that's why I don't want to think at all. I'm worn out with thinking. I don't trust thinking –– not my thinking, anyway. I don't want to think, and I really don't want to think about what I'm thinking.
I'm back to wanting to do the Cold Mountain lifetsyle: near-total isolation, nothing to understand, nothing to sort out, just direct experience of a simple life as it happens.
I've been thinking (Dammit! There it is again!) about this notion of experiencing life without doing the concurrent internal running commentary. It sounds like it can be incredibly liberating. And while a hut at Walden Pond isn't absolutely necessary to master it, it seems like it would be a significant aid.
The one thing worse than a woman who tries to change my clothes, my car and my habits is a woman who doesn't try to change me at all. Because then when blind panic sets in, I don't have a valid excuse for fleeing into the night.
But I do it anyway. I don't know about L4, but my heart is in lockdown mode because it, like my brain, is a helium balloon dancing on the end of a string, ready to float off into fantasy and unreality the moment I loosen my grip on it.
I don't trust my thinking. Nor do I trust my feeling, for that matter. There's nothing I can trust. It's all tainted with judgments and prejudices and childhood traumas and self-justification and self-disdain. Tainted with flawed data from Hollywood movies and Pearl Drops Tooth Polish ads from the seventies. Tainted with pop music sentimentality.
I want to move to the country, eliminate all the conflicting input, and get grounded in reality.
And I'm going to do that as soon as we win the lottery.
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