2009-01-16
As a young teen I thought I was oh so complex, until I turned right around and printed simple on all my labels. Of course, it is very difficult to present a truly original and inscrutable cause for hesitation or internal conflict if your audience has read a few books, watched a few tv shows, paid some attention to their own social circle over the years. Everyone's seen everything before. And the circle fills itself; now I am repeatedly informed that I am indeed complex. I'd like to say I'm not, because it's bullshit, all the scrambled experience and expectation and hope and will and association and tiredness, it's bullshit, it's not relevant; just because it's there, doesn't mean it needs to be considered, doesn't mean you have to mention it if anyone asks. There's always a devastatingly simple plot, if you don't get distracted by the decorative details. I am human; it must be impossible for any human to keep less than five dozen different strands of thought in mind at any given time; the only difference in complexity is how much conscious attention is paid to the background noise. I can never quite manage to say "I wish I didn't think so much"; because I know no alternative, no other option than always to look for the reasons, the causes and effects, the reasons behind the reasons. Every time you ask me to explain, I hear the faint echo of my younger self, jumping at the chance to talk, to explain about this big fat brain; I get so appalled by the idea, I can't say anything at all. I don't want to say anything. At this point, I can't even imagine why you could possibly want to know.