Patches of Identity

Little patches of identity arrive like Santa on his sleigh with presents. Perhaps they are like snowflakes which splat like wet marks on one’s face which is a primary part of self making one aware of his face and what he may sort of secretly reveal to the world though the secret is the worlds not his until some dragon feeling conscious of self burns him with febrile breath through some unkind word. Yes, world you are the devil when you judge, hypocritical and calloused. Anyway, what got me to thinking this way was how we often read a character in a novel according to how we envision them to be. Like when I read about this beautiful woman who the guy likes or is interested in and when she speaks I speak inwardly with a woman’s voice. Does anybody else do that? Do you ladies speak with a deep voice when you read the guy characters in novels? I am not being jennerous but seriously aren’t all of us just a little weird in that way. There may be a place in psychic life or emotional life for feminine thoughts in males and masculine thoughts in females. I am sure people have been saying that for years. Jung had his anima.

But I am not only noting sexual identity’s equivocation in the  mind, I also note the fact of voices because I hear voices telling me to do things I would never do yet I know they have a source of broken tendrils in my  brain. Oftentimes, I hear music from rock songs both in my mind I am singing along with and songs playing in my ears sometimes different songs to each ear. I do not believe I  am just an evil person when I have some of these thoughts. Rock songs probably do mean I have a stone for a heart which will choke out the good word. But it is not all of it belongs to me I don’t believe. I don’t know. I am the source of my thoughts sort of I think. I may have familiar spirits talking to me I suppose. I hope not. I hope this is not automatic writing of some type. I would be uncomfortable with that.

Anyway, as you can tell my burnt up conscience bothers me. Like the iron that does not mingle with miry clay I don’t mix with the people at all. I take life perhaps too serious anyway but I was brought up to be serious. So now my heart is as hard as a rock.

Patches of Identity

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