Writing With Eyes Closed

I wrote these short pieces in two sittings. I've spellchecked since then, though.

Part One

As an exercise, I guess I'll just begin typing and see what happens. Nothing in particular is emerging yet, but I'm sure that's because I know what it is I have to write, and I'm simply afraid to write it. I'm afraid that I am selfish. I want to use people for my own purposes, which are not noble. They are base at worst and trivial at best, or maybe trivial at worst and base at best.

For no reason, at least that I can discern, it felt like the right time to begin a new paragraph. The drone of commercial television is filtering through the window to my right. I've noticed in the last couple days that the neighbors are listening to the television louder than usual, or I've noticed maybe for the first time that they actually watch television. I've wondered if there is a new housemate, or maybe the neighbor went deaf in the last two days, and now has to listen at full volume. I wonder how many typos I'm making. I wonder whether it matters.

There will be more time to write again. That is, if I make it. "If I make time," as if time were a product I could shape from raw materials.

Part Two

Okay, so I'm selfish. We all are. This simply means that I have needs. I have desires that I blame society for squelching, but I'm doing the squelching all on my own. Whether it's the internalized Father of Freudian mythology, or the paternal imago of Jung, or the conscience or the soul or God or Rama or Krishna or Moses or my mom or my sisters or my guilt, it's all of these, none of these, it's me. It's me, it's me. I am my own superego, I am my own stumbling block, and I guess it all comes back to "it's my fault." And who's blaming the victim now?...oh yeah, it's me.