On the Anatomy of Feeling
Not with all the words in the world can we do ourselves justice.
Not with a sentence or a talk or a video or a book can we do feelings that fill us any honorable service.
How did I get here this morning?
I couldn’t hear my thoughts.
And I try to write them and bring myself to a place of sanity (don’t worry, I’m fine, I’m sane) and all I’m given are words.
Words to represent feelings when all feelings want to do is represent themselves.
How do we feel feelings, I ask?
It is a squeaking hamster wheel in the right-most pit of my stomach. A grey lump in the lower part of my throat. Elbows that wish to float. Ears that burn or sparkle.
Anatomical hieroglyphics to which we try to attach words.
Things born in the body of their own volition (and under collusion with none other than our very own selves) we attempt to interpret, analyze, paste a formulaic meaning.
I don’t want to feel things sometimes (oftentimes) because my position as a writer makes this an especially burdensome task.
See, I want to attach words to everything.
I want a narrative written in my mind to account for the non-narrative events taking place throughout my body and…it is simply a thing that cannot be done.
This brings me to a wall, an impasse, between myself and myself.
And this brings us to now.
To the fact that there’s not much I can do but throw some pebbles at that space where wall meets ground and turn away to walk in a different direction.
I’m feeling a little dramatic this morning, have you noticed?
I blame it on Valgeir Sigurðsson.
And can’t I?
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