Silly Me

I'd been thinking I could stand on my own two feet and move under my own power.
I should know better.
Maybe now we'll finally get somewhere.


Or maybe it's just another iteration in a constant sequence of nested hopes for maybe this time... but that's the cynical me speaking.
The usual me says if nothing else, the movement is good and even if I'm always restarting, it does help.
The overseer me says that I should be more responsible, consistent, with my direction.
The practical me says not to fuss too much if it's working.
The responsible me says I should be more clear about what it's working for.
The determinist-critic me says it's no use trying to describe structure around motivations and motion that will unfold regardless of my descriptions, I'll only fool myself.
The idealist me says no, we can make it better from the inside out.
The writer me says I should at least observe carefully.
The me I'm trying to find recognizes something of herself, and for that at least, is glad.




One of my friends was just telling me about Russian Fiction and how its themes are unique and very interesting in light of the Gulags (and their lack of structure or pattern of any reasonably correlative sort) and the country's oft-uprooted sense of national identity (apparently the sense of the ideal man has been uprooted and revamped so often that nobody ever felt like they belonged to the national identity, leaving individuals to either be isolated or to connect as individuals). I think I would like Russian Fiction.