what is best for me?
how should I know?
maybe I just think I should know.
maybe my heart tells me
what it thinks I should know.
maybe I don't know at all.
am I supposed to know?
does anyone ever know?
it's like a nightmare
a constant struggle
what's my purpose?
where's the balance?
We pit our emotions
against our instincts
when they should
be working together
in harmony.
It's always
this constant
CONSTANT
struggle
to find balance.
I'll tell you where balance lives.
It lives in our subconscious.
maybe it's about why we make
the choices we make,
rather than the results they create.
is it better to trust reason or emotion?
why don't they work in harmony?
my thoughts and my feelings
are in a constant wrestling match
against my logic and my existential self.
is it better to trust reason or emotion?
why don't they work in harmony?
my thoughts and my feelings
are in a constant wrestling match
against my logic and my existential self.
but it isn't about the outcome of the struggle.
not for me.
it's about the path,
the road,
the journey toward the end.
not the end itself.
what end?
every end.
never end.
something must begin
in order to end.
where's the end?
where's the end?
does it ever end?
all which we can be certain about,
is the now.
beginning are endings.
endings, beginnings.
it's a paradox.
it's a paradox.
beginning and endings
are only as important
as the distances
that lay in between.
it's all we've really got.
A rhizome has no beginning or end;
it is always in the middle
it is always in the middle
between things, interbeing, intermezzo
*
a rhizome
is like
a ride in a taxicab.
the time in between
where you were
and where you are going.
it is always
in between-it is always
where the subconscious
manifests into the conscious,
and the conscious
decodes the subconscious.
a rhizome.
where we struggle
with our emotions,
our thoughts,
our bodies,
our selves.
between things
does not designate
a localizable relation
going from one thing to the other and back again,
but a perpendicular direction,
a transversal movement
that sweeps one and the other away,
a stream
wihtout beginning or end
that undermines its banks
and picks up speed in the middle.
*
*: Deleuze and Guattari's A Thousand Plateaus "Introduction: Rhizome"
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