Self and reality. Symbol and language. Myth and image. Memory and consciousness.
Dream and unreality: locus communis.

Sunday, September 7, 2014

Wandering Empty Buildings

For a brief moment, I knew exactly what today’s entry would entail— the mood, the tone, language, closing message. As it is, nothing remained in my head, aside from the opening phrase: For a brief moment— only a pale tundra remains, a dry rime underfoot, crunching softly as I wander, lost, looking for a point, a lingering red thread of an idea— blood red, earthy blood red, a hue which stands out clearly in an all-white world, but—
The three of us went to the nearby college library this afternoon, trying to instill the notion of books into Brendan’s caffeinated personality, offer him words, phrases— pictures. Even so, he seems more influenced by athletics, science, definitions, numbers.
Afterwards we crossed the campus. The heat of early afternoon settled thickly across shoulders, humidity determined to shift us away, chase anyone from wandering empty buildings and walkways of the college, silent in the weekend afternoon hours.

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