Not even 4 am, and here I am.
It is one thing to awaken in the pitch darkness, but it is quite another to awaken in the pitch darkness feeling like an upside-down cockroach and flailing your arms because you just thought you died in one evil pregnant snort. It’s enough to get you up and thinking of things to blog about. In my clase, visions of existence popped into my mind.
Right now, the cat is trying her damnedest to get me to open the door for her. This is a fact that will not occur until at least 4:15 am, but she is giving it a willling go. The baby inside me is shifting dangerously again, albeit without the wanton violence of the past two days– where I’ve been left reeling from the hollow nerve pain. It is reassuring to know that it’s quite the alive little beast, but OW!
The Monsieur sleeps. I don’t have the heart to wake him up, but I don’t have the stoicism to watch him slumber peacefully while I think of Existence and Identity before four in the friggin’ morning. That’s just kinda cruel to myself.
So here I am, trembling keyboard in hand, wondering about my identity. Of course, as a slacker philosophy student at some point (isn’t it, like, required to graduate college? I have no idea actually) I know I must have had to take this far more seriously –at least until the paper was due. But I was talking to a long-time contact on my sevelerey-pared-down IM list and she was fretting about this crap.
So out of all the day’s experiences yesterday– and believe me, yesterday was rather experience-full– I just had to remember bits and pieces of a conversation about something of which I remember little (with excessive and obsequious pardons to Mr. Zarathrustra himself).
I started thinking about those who may know me but do not really know I am me.
Weird thought, but I think it’s probably not uncommon among semi-anonymous people on the Internets.
Not that I am eager to peel back layers of secrecy here or anything –I like being mysterious and apparently seem to be sometimes good at it (I still don’t know how, as I am not that good at secret-keeping….. and yikes…. has it gotten nasty in times past). I am just wondering about the layers of identity that surround us.
Obviously there is some sort of person we are. The human. The hollow shell, if you will.
Now, ID cards come and go– you could truly call yourself anything you want (Moon Unit, Ziggy Stardust, Tropic Lightning, Muhammad Ali, The Artist Formerly Known as Prince). It’s a weird concept, but truly “a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”
But then what makes us who we are?
I guess that somehow everything we do has the stamp of our humanity. But what is that humanity? What is that part that is greater than ourselves and which transcends ordinary and much-repeated names and/or monikers? What is it that imparts not just that kernel of who we are but taints our impressions of life?
ACK. I want to get this but I just cannot. I’ve been spinning my wheels of thought but I am just far too exhausted to cozy up with some depressing stuff talking about how there is only existence, and how hell is other people.
Well, though…. sometimes hell IS other people.
Don’t fret!! If “l’enfer c’est les autres”, heaven, sometimes, is other people too…