journal entry — Sunday, June 29th 2025
I am tired standing here, my weight all on my right leg, knee locked, with my left foot on top of the other, not quite perpendicular. My stomach hurts, it’s hurt all day, in a number of ways but it’s fine. My legs are hot and I can feel my pulse in my feet, my hair is dry at the roots and the ends but still wet in the middle, and my back as much as my eyes wishes that I’d lie down and sleep.
But nevertheless here I stand, because I am in Chamonix, and I am alive, and I am able to see pas the things that hurt me and have hurt me to find the things that are good. It’s too much pressure to call them the reasons I am here or to say they are perfect & incandescent & they make the rest worth it. But nevertheless here I stand, for some reason, even if the full picture of that reason requires color cones I do not possess and exists on a plane between axes I cannot comprehend.
I don’t know how much of me is me yet, you know? I don’t know what’s circumstantial and what’s innate and what’s ephemeral, and I really don’t even know whether there is a discrepancy of intrinsic worth between those categories.
But nevertheless, here I stand, on the balcony of a hotel room in Chamonix, France, thinking of all the people I’ve loved and all the people I’ve lost my sympathy for. It is up to them first to anger at my perceived distaste, if it is perceived indeed, then to change, and then to realize that they are the sole arbiters of their own fate.
As I did.
The Dilemma Of It All 