(no subject)

[proximoception]

Our interest in our younger years doesn't center on the greater physical power and beauty of youth - however much our interest in the young may - so much as what it was like to not yet know. As it's been proved we're all still idiots the knowledge I'm talking about isn't knowledge in general, of what things are as compared to how we can choose to look at them. I think growing up is learning what's okay, which from some perspective or other would include pretty much anything. It's collecting these perspectives that changes us, trying new ones, learning to switch back and forth, even double up for comfort. The more things are okay the less any particular thing matters, is the problem. We want the mattering, know our tactics for keeping things okay have involved us in lies, don't dare actually change as it would break the cardinal rule of never bringing back transcended pain, but meet and dream and think about that earlier being, for whom feelings were so awful that reality could cure them. To narcotized adults reality sans interpretation seems hellish, we're so protected by our patterns that there never again need be such a thing. We won't touch the stove but we'll think about the kind of person who might. Who might even have been cooled doing so. What else in us might it have cooled, what lies might we dispense with? Perhaps they knew, could see - if only we were them again. But maybe they're still here? We think about them and talk to them and tell them what they'd say to us and worry that it's wrong. That it's not at all what they'd have said, say. One of the few worries, as defined by that earlier dictionary, we still permit ourselves.