Simon Thibault

October 1997

Sometimes I lose touch with reality.

And I don't mean watching movies, and I don't mean that I'm some kind of paranoid delusional.

I just don't get it sometimes. I don't understand my world around me.

I don't believe in Gertrude Stein's idea that "a rose is a rose is a rose". Only if you can take that as saying that "a rose is a symbol of a rose, but it's still a rose, and so a rose is a rose is a rose". Get it? Hold on, I'll continue.

I believe that everyone that we meet in our lives represent something. A part of ourselves, or a certain stage of our life, or even represent something which we cannot completely grasp. My friend Sangeeta believes that people are reflections of one another. I think that they can be, and that she is my reflection, but some people gather much more inherent complexity than that, and as such, are metaphors, or manifestations of ourselves.

I also believe that when I create (and I believe that this can apply to many people) what comes out becomes mythic. It can be as simple as you want it to be, but once those words have left your mouth or fingers that what has left you becomes like a distant psychic member of your body and mind. It is a representation of you, and your emotional state, mind, memory, etc., and it can incite emotion, but it is not emotion. It is a part of it.

Keeping this in mind, I write and paint and do a lot of creative work. I use paints, photos, words, even HTML as creative venues. But my problem is that sometimes I confuse reality with symbol. And this happens when things snowball. I get a little down and I hate the world. And then things get in the gray areas. And I hold on to old roots then. Anxiety. Fear. Loneliness. And for the first time in a long time: harming myself.

I hadn't thought of that in a long time, but I wanted to forget the pain that was inside my body. I wanted my body to hurt me more than anything else, for it seemed that maybe I would forget my mind. I even wrote to a friend of mine that I wished that my mind would come in and close my eyes and blind me. I called up a friend of mine, ranting. Not making any sense. I needed to get out.

The funny thing in all of this was that I was able to function. I actually did a lot of my school work, and actually got a decent mark on one of my exams which I studied for four days. I am learning. Learning not to let myself drown. So I write. I have been writing profusely. Rants, poems, stories, and working on old paintings and photos, and my websites.

My websites. I have two of them. They are called the vigil and the travelling. One is a memoir of sorts, the other a place where I put up my texts and poems and such. It's funny, because I was talking to this guy I know (that's understating it, but that'll become as to what role he plays) and he said, "I don't want to see them. I don't want to see your poems. You're poetic, and I have you. I don't want the by-product."


He really is the confused part of all this. You see, I love him. But I can't see him, let alone be with him. So I try to forget him. And I can't articulate about him when I want to. Only when I can.

There is more, and it will come. Just wait.


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