Good Grief 146

Self, selves, others ... existence
There's too  much I want to put here ... most of it half-baked.
Where to start ...
There's the internal and the external
The integrated self .... the disintegrated self
The bit that is utterly collapsed and the bit that carries on
The bit that sees joy in a blue streak, a piece of music, a play of light ... so many things, and the bit that only sees perpetual darkness
They oscillate day by day, moment by moment
All the parts of the internal family, the gaoler, the girls ... the gardener who came and went, who was he? He said it was too arid to grow anything here and buggered off. And probably, the as yet, unknown.
The self that is appalled, the self that accepts
The girls seem to be merging, or is that my imagination ...
And does any of it matter? Of course it doesn't, it's self absorbed nonsense ...
... and then the seamless slip into anger of course.
I think Freud was probably right about anger.
And then there are others ... what is the point of others?
And as we drift further away it is hard to know where existence begins and ends. Birth and death? How much are we really existing in between, and what is it to be 'here'. We 'construct' something and sometimes it is built well and sees us through. Perhaps some of us aren't such great builders, or just unlucky, or just different, and try to patch something together as best we can, or not.
So much toing and froing. The exhaustion of moving backwards and forwards, from here to there. Both have such a strong sense of place. Both have everything and nothing in their different ways. Watching a mind slowly disintegrating. Watching a living collapse from the inside out. We are both doing the same thing, the mother has lived life and has much to show but, seemingly painlessly, aware of almost none of it, the child has lived death, has little to show and, painfully, is aware of almost all of it.
It feels like a very small pathetically sad tragedy being carried out virtually silently and unseen.