We Go Where We Go


Everything we do is related to what we don’t do. Not in a philosophical sense, I’m referring more to how a life evolves, if left to live peacefully and mindfully, over the time span of a lifetime. The day-to-day deeds kind of know how to get you where you want without your realising that is where you want or need to go. And then a lifetime is up, and what have you got? I’m not sure if I make sense, but I’m grappling with an inside world that rules my outside, with the ironic on my. Sometimes I feel I will never be more than ten; sometimes I feel this is because I have tens of lifetimes before this ten year-old self I only am.

I am reading Larry McMurtry’s memoir called Books. I have read Walter Benjamin at the Dairy Queen and Roads, and know there must be a good explanation why the lives of cowboys, specifically pioneers who were cowboys, interest me so. For the past few weeks, I keep on reading McMurtry’s books about a history and culture so foreign to my physical world only because I cannot reason my strange draw towards the life, myth and landscape of the cowboy. The truth is, even the historical (real) cowboy is as unreal as the celluloid cowboy. Yet I feel I must be connected somehow in this trilogy of the surreal, real and ideal lives. This strange familiarity…


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