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Tuesday's Diary entry, or

 

Etude-Tableaux: Rhapsody on a theme of

 

"Marriage is a connection between two souls" (as seen on TV)

 

in the style of Proust

 

But I don't even know what a soul is! For ages, I was just a flowing dot of experience, (even if the magnetic waft towards such an image made the experience of life less literal than it is). And I knew that inside that dot was a bead of pure indestructible nothing - nothing to exist so as to tint any red off-shade if there was red to be seen; all colors were richly such-as-they-are. All experiences attested to the neutral generosity of the blank sheet of mind, which every sensation desires to distort in joy. Such joy is of the same color that autumn leaves shrill out before they die, and always saying goodbye, you may fish for flavor in rapid little kisses you shower at the images before the surface goes grey and glassy.

But it continues at the bottom of Winter's sea; watery eyes recuperate in rest, while the Blue Dragon swirls within the deep, rubbing against you with scales that singe. 

But all of this is still a rather plain view of the landscape, of the easy questions and answers that transfer their energies across my atmosphere, in gentle lightning flashes of thoughts that sparkle up my sky, such as every vacuum invites wanton interruptions of their own. Like the myriad misty layers that paw at a mighty rod of starlight, when that star hits my eye, I look down over the well's edge to a similarly uninterrupted view of the center. This is a center radiating its own eternally confident light; a blackness that negates all the colors of the world, much like how a negative transforms and distorts what you saw in the view-finder. It's all very unremarkable physics, quietly operating the world as I know it. 

But soul! What can I say about you? I call, and you come - drunk and incoherent, and utterly incapable of conversation. You're here now, and I still don't know what to do with us.

Quite the sorry couple, aren't we? What could I possibly venture about our union with another person? Each time you turned and outstretched your arms at somebody, we ran aground amongst the rocks. What hope do I have of knowing how it's like when you wrap yourself around someone, because I then knew how to protect that whole delicate operation?

I know so little of this, there's actually nothing for self-pity to dream itself toward, much as I could appreciate any music on this bland TV show-watching evening.

But as I thought this, the Golden Dragon barked, and so here we are with the belated transcript. 

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