signs of wear

In a fit of procrastinational glory, the only kind I know, I was re-reading work done from 1998. Re-reading class notes (not purely useless, but close) and then hand written tests, then poetry. Damn, I was good. And not so. I read myself and I see the infantile, puerile inchoate language. There was no dominion. No ownership. Timidity mixed with a certain degree of hubris. Who was I? Terrible.

I realize now. Now, yes? now. That it will always be this way. A few years will pass and the words that shock even me, (did I write that?) will seem so foreign. The feelings, the lack. Lacan says that the unconscious is like a blinking light, that turns on and then off again.

There are moments, there are moments.

So much good advice to which I paid no heed. So much knowledge forgotten, erased, decayed, eroded. Sandstone blasted away by the wind.

I don't belong in this profession. Oh God, I don't belong in any profession. I shouldn't even be breathing.
And yet... I think I will for a little while longer, despite the fact that I annoy even myself.