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2004-12-02 - 4:26 p.m.

So much desire to say something and so little to say. Is this another result of reduced circumstances? As I give or shred or shave away the parts of my life, will my voice eventually go with them? And really, for all my attachment, how much does it matter?

Reduced circumstances. For each layer gone, or hardened into the one previous, for each bit that dies, I can still be surprised by how much more I can lose. And I care less, which is the more frightening of the two. I've never wanted to be uncaring, afraid of what I might become, or change into. Afraid of the potential for darkness.

I worry. I worry what will become of me, discarded from the life I thought I would have, the only life I can remember wanting. I worry what I will become, as this uncaring becomes deeper and more pervasive. I worry that I will not die, leaving only long years that I haven't prepared for, like a grasshopper in summer, scorning an ant. I worry about things external, as well; I am not completely self-involved. Yet. And there it is. Yet. The potential is there. As it spreads inward like rot. I worked so hard to get here, to care, and be, and... everything. And in the end, for what?

Reduced circumstances. Distance. And the erosion of self. How the gods must laugh.

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