How could I ever begin a tractate on the complex emotions of attachment?
Pictures of an Oakland building- between Summit & Webster on 29th Street
Been reading these blog posts from this writer who posted today on Kosinski-
I started thinking about what makes up a life? With all the memoirs written nowadays- had any life not been written about? Has it become an addiction to the sensational? Does what happens to a person (oftentimes it is out of the person's control anyway) is that makes a life worth telling? What about thoughts and feelings? I suppose if that were the major pulse of a life, such a person would write about those things. I, too, am guilty of lurid fascination. Half of what I read is about other people. My only defense: I have an incurable curiosity of how others' live their lives. If I could dissolve my own being to become a speck of consciousness which can witness the multiple lives unfolding in this world; that would greatly please me. Instead I am a discrete being, bounded by body, unable to transcend the limits which allow me to observe all simultaneously. Hence the closest I can attain this perfected state I desire, is through reading all these thoughts and lives.
