There is a part of me that observes. It doesn’t do or think. It watches the rest of me, carefully, and remembers.
That’s how I deal with them. The faces in the clouds, the writing in shadows, the premonitions like old video reels, scratched and dull, foretelling terrible things.
There’s a sadness there, too, in the observation, as I watch myself destroy myself, the breakdown like footage of an avalanche, a glacier crumbling, demolition, dust everywhere. There’s that awful tension, between the safety of watching and pain of knowledge, of experience. It’s tightrope walking. Lean too far, and you’re lost.