Oct 01 19
At every moment we operate feeling we have yoked all of our tenses at once. That the field is navigable and our feet are under our control. And yet every self-aware moment is confounded afresh; that the “tenses” are phantasmagoric and keep slipping through the shackles — our powers are remote and come from elsewhere.
But more than this primordial frustration, is a question — what keeps our curiosity about this from being pursued? What blocks this baseline inquisitiveness and keeps us on our wonky way?
There is some odd parent-like thing in our heads, something that employs seductive and comforting means, like the soft song sleep sings to beckon us to dream. Something firm and innately respectable is constantly uttering almost humming, “Hush now. No need to look over there; that’s right just keep your focus straight ahead and stay on the path. If you do maybe there will be a treat waiting.”
Who is speaking thus?
But more than this primordial frustration, is a question — what keeps our curiosity about this from being pursued? What blocks this baseline inquisitiveness and keeps us on our wonky way?
There is some odd parent-like thing in our heads, something that employs seductive and comforting means, like the soft song sleep sings to beckon us to dream. Something firm and innately respectable is constantly uttering almost humming, “Hush now. No need to look over there; that’s right just keep your focus straight ahead and stay on the path. If you do maybe there will be a treat waiting.”
Who is speaking thus?