SUBJECT A: “Do you remember who you were?”
SUBJECT B: “No. That’s why I kept the journals.”
SUBJECT A: “But now you’ve gone and lost them. Haven’t you?”
SUBJECT B: “I never was any good at keeping things.”
SUBJECT A: “Who will you be now?”
SUBJECT B: “Anyone I want to be. I guess.”
SUBJECT A: “Do you remember what you used to write in your journal?”
SUBJECT B: “Not really. Words though beautiful are a poor replica for the fluidity of thought. Thought has its own mercurial quality. Rising like a wave from the depths. Traveling through a sea of consciousness to break away from a world of wateriness and become one distinct wave that departs. Leaves everything it knows to become unique with the sole purpose of crashing into a shore of meaning.”
SUBJECT A: “If words are so confining, how could your journals be your template for becoming?”
SUBJECT B: “What else is there? You’ve got to make do with what you’ve got. And all that I had were the words in those old moleskin books.”
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