Whiskers
tickle the indifference. Condition has probed me. The pain escapes me,
becoming blasé. A writer says: “I do not even suffer pain” […] “But even pain
has lost its power to refresh me.” In the indifference, something has become
dull, blunted, hebetated, due to abrasion and repetition. The wilderness
sustaining me, has become the forest I neglect. In the absence of my attention,
all of my attention, is given to noticing the indifference. The vulture pecks
away; maybe not at my liver, maybe at my vision, where I should be lenient, I have
aggressive depictions; most gravid feelings, becoming normal, this, too, has
become a piece of indifferent complacency. The smugness of the pain, affecting
the inner person, while thought uncritically, whereat, it is taken for granted,
the ever-blossoming presence of aesthetic pains. I do not hassle over the pain;
the pain is expected; in all of the rosary diplomacy, it all of psychology, we
find, as pains drift into seas, they ebb back into humans—most creatively, one
decides to define and perceive each discomfort—at moments, buried in mire and
mud and swamp; to wander about oceans, meeting metaphors, harping not on the
inevitable disconnection with others, self, and existence. As the writer puts
it, to like something is to find the likeness is all that one knows.
