Vain by the Conventionality of Her.

Is Dean Young right in this as well?

Also at work [...] is a fundamental assault on the notion of the coherent self at the center of a work of art and the assumption that the self precedes expression. The self na na na na na is an accidental construction from debased materials like everything else, collaged from the wreckage of context, available to us only through sabotage and hoax.

Am I collaged from the wreckage of context? That's a somewhat comfort as I cry myself awake this morning.

(Crying the self to sleep is overrated; your feelings get swallowed by your pillow.

Crying the self awake makes the water taste bitter, making the bed is hauling an anchor out of the ocean.
And all the time you get that deep recognition of the edges of the self, not the body only but spiritual self,

the contained self,
its sabotage and hoax.

Crying awake makes you feel the space around you more than the space within you.

I mean, me.)

O!, sad feelings open like windowblinds!
Hint of clearness then spotlight of nothing.

I'm still here. The light didn't dissolve me. Instead I'm going for a bike ride and changing every plan I made for the day.

Yesterday Yet proposed that I should to consciously consider what scares the fuck out of me.
I told myself, don't judge someone's suggestion unless you entertain it.

(So what scares me that I don't even want to admit to myself?)

And then, when I'd thought about it, she said, "Now run toward it."

So I'm changing every plan I made for the day;
I'm running toward it.

Feeling the space around me, existing the wreckage of context (wreckage I created for myself, most of it),
but existing nonetheless.

Through the spotlight of the morning that finally turned the white exceptional morning sky to common sky blue.
And that did the same to me.

* 

As George Santayana wrote (trading his for her),

Her radical solutions were rendered vain by the conventionality of her problems.

Exceptional feelings in exchange for common ones.
Rather, feelings of being exceptional in exchange for feelings of being common.

(Scare the fuck out of me that realization? Yes!
I am running toward it now.)