Except to entertain my vanity in a journal (Oi diary, yesterday bleated more cow-ish than goat-ish) and to record my dreams when I wake, I write at night for it is difficult to focus in the light. There is always too many things zooming about. My essay, the one which I am finding so exciting––which does not mean my brother is correct in saying that I have no life, but rather, that which entertains me does not interest him––is not due until next week. However, since I need time to make less grammatical errors in my writings it is  best to start early. My thoughts on “being” inspired “On Feelings,” which I shared earlier this week.

It appears that though we are, some of us are not present enough to recognize something as common and beautiful as the complexity of our feelings. It brings to mind the night and day in a metaphoric sense: where “being” is easily the light, leaving darkness to the former. And yet being is itself light and dark, where presence is light and darkness is absence. And again being in light and dark, where light represent the obvious and dark the inconspicuous.

Anyway, I have class tonight so it is better I write now than later. But before I go, have you ever wondered what sort you are? I suppose you probably have. Are you more of your preferred self in the day or night? Despite my love for the night, the twilights of sunset always give me the blues where as that of daybreak fills me with a sense of diffused euphoria.

What  am I saying? I do not know, Mate. I have been reading Dante’s Purgatioria for class and I keep thinking of how very little is original and how it is still all very original. How the thoughts that passes through one’s mind and seemingly unique to them are often from others and still somehow theirs. We are mosaics of so many that we are at once individuals and common. And it makes one wonder what being actually is?

—
Jane