Some people, me especially maybe, are better known from a certain distance; they show more of what matters about them from that distance. Too far and there’s nothing at all, too close and there’s nothing in the too-muchness that comes at once. From any point of focus, there’s too much or there’s not enough, the too-muchness ungraspable and the not-enoughness unbearable, so that in the rare relationship where the perfect perceptual distance is discovered and settled, it ought to be preserved.
I won’t fit any slot of yours and that’s good–that’s the authenticity that has also determined for it to require the distance that it does, to persist as something extraordinary. Because I notice, at given times, that it can become quite ordinary, if not banal, and this when the distance is decreased.
So the allure is largely rooted in the imagination, in what it can draw out of a thing, and in what it can hope from it, or what it can illuminate in other areas of thought. To construct another’s existence in the imagination is safe in a way that accepting their reality isn’t. It’s more surreal, and more controllable; no exposure, no responsibility…
Hidden, self-indulgent thinking is what it rests on, and what I rest on, for fear of things outside of it that don’t feel mine at all, and which I can’t accept as they are–all the stupid conditions of simple maintenance. I choose to elevate it beyond that, even if it pays no mind to levels below itself, even if others claim that it needs to.
Cyclargus Erembis 