I recently found this short bit of writing in an old notebook. Judging from the notebook itself, and the writings surrounding this particular piece, it was most likely written within a month or two of December 1st, 2006 (The accident). I have no idea to whom this writing is aimed - if anyone at all - as I remember nothing about it. It seems to have been written with agitation to some specific event, but I have no memory as to what it might have been.
Reading these old writings are odd for me. With no attachment to, or memory of, the thing, it is as if I am reading the words of a master forger; it isn't me, but someone else perfectly imitating my handwriting.
Too bad I cannot remember this. It seems interesting. ;-)
Sitting across the table, one sees everything you are. Every insecurity, every wrong you've meted out to those 'lower' than you, every exacting repetition of the words belonging to long dead masters...it is all there within you. Perhaps cleverly hidden, but it is there.
It is not a trick, a guess, or a projection....one can feel your pride as one might feel heat from a burning ember. It screams so strongly, it is hard to hear the real over the din of the false.
Even though, in your own words, this activity is all an illusion, it is your motivating factor.
You've pointed to many things, naming them trivial, illusory, insignificant. Yet you've not been able to see these things within yourself; the trivial, illusory, and insignificant nature of the blind leading the blind.