The spinning head of a quiet morning after a day filled with books and a astoundingly thought provoking movie — Saltburn. Continued to feed the absorbing fire and read some analyses of it just a bit ago. Head so spinny with thoughts, remembered impressions, visual sensations; hard to center oneself.
Thinking of Alan Rickman now — his tendency to say so little in his diaries, like he was too afraid to put his most honest feelings into words that he forgot that is generally the whole point of keeping a diary in the first place. Let it not be said about me that I was too frightened to slip the blunt clarity of my deepest thoughts and feelings into whatever journal I am keeping at the moment. Perhaps Alan Rickman was more blunt with people in person than I am. It would not be difficult to believe him more openly honest than me. I find myself seeking and noticing ruffled feathers, and am always more likely to soothe them than to disregard whether I am adding to their disorder.
Very little in my life seems fixed, permanent. My view of the kind of person I want to be, however, seems consistent enough. That is to say, consciously, I cannot keep my interests or goals consistent. But my unconscious tendencies and desires appear quite solid and predictable.
Enough. If words were colorful felt tip pens, I have doodled all over the page, and it's starting to get inconsistent and out of hand, reaching. I am, believe it or not, not here to kick back and listen to the sound of my own voice drone on and on. Realizing that I was doing just that, and that I was intensifying my damaging fixations, is why I stopped journaling for many years after I graduated college. I have not returned to make the same mistakes.
I sincerely hope.