And I sat in my overstuffed chair eating stale crackers and reading Henry Miller’s Tropic Of Capricorn. As rain fell I felt cozy and warm in my rented room; not much to call mine, a bed, coffee pot, some books, a writing tablet; I felt at home. I felt at home.
I read out loud. Read parts of the book that calls out for self exploration. For that is the only exploration worth fighting for. You will not find yourself in the streets of Chicago, nor on mountains in Pakistan, it is within that you find truth; a truth that takes a lifetime to unravel. And, some will be willing to take that risk of self exploration while others will not; for they are the ones that look towards commerce and wealth, commerce and wealth, instead of the soul.
I look to my soul and I am scared. I see greed and sickness, a sickness that only comes in the form of being an American; a type of sickness that can perhaps never be cured. Perhaps.
This sickness took over my soul at birth, a demonic birth where I wailed out from within the womb, DO NOT TAKE ME, DO NOT TAKE ME, like Miller my decision of taking comfort over pain started from the get-go, and that wanting of comfort has never relinquished.
So, I seek out comfort; comfort in books, jazz, a woman’s touch, a fine meal when I’m in the flush. I do not seek out comforts in palaces, cars, cannibalism, or any of the other mediocrities seen on television in beer advertisements, cable shows, nor the nightly news.
Mine is simple. Mine is simple. And I still feel guilty.