You don’t know what’s going on, you don’t know what’s setting things off. Time was that things made sense but that was long ago. Vaguely long ago. Now, there’s something you’d like to figure out or find out about yourself, the world, life–something–but you don’t know what it is or how. How to do so. You don’t know where to begin, how to begin, what it means to begin; you don’t know what you’re after, and you’re not sure how to recognize what you’re after as this thing here. Is it this thing in front of you, or is it that other thing far-off in the distance? Or not either right here or far-off? Or not some thing or any-thing at all? Lots of questions, one right after the other. Keep asking them, yes.
Self-awareness: you’re paralyzed or you’re dizzy, that’s what you’re feeling, so you had better sit down. Or–no–you’re running pellmell in some direction because this direction, you reckon, is better than standing still. Go faster, that’s it. But why this direction? Good question. You sit down to rest, but it doesn’t feel like rest and you don’t feel any better.
Your head hurts, you notice; it would be nice if life weren’t so chaotic, so arbitrary, so unaccountably mysterious. There’s a harsh laugh at the absurdity of it all (great, hollow bellows about the Folly of Human Existence) followed by the false consolation of an unnamed other’s warm body next to yours. Alien other, and in the morning nothing has changed.
Behind the eyes you hear, Specify and inquire. (Daimon?) These words mean something, you sense this as you go to steady yourself, but what their meaning is eludes your comprehension. To know what they mean: that could be a start, that might start you off on something or, at least, to quieting some part of that unquiet mind.