I'm dimly aware of not being my own master, that the words I'm saying are funneled through me. Echolalia. Not just the words; the thoughts as well. The longing for freedom as well as the longing for self: it's so deceptive. Neither is what I want: what I want is other people in subjection. Which would be all very well, were it not that holding people in subjection was my final answer, in the game of "let's define evil!" Which might still be very well, if a feeble and scatterbrained old man had any chance of subjecting anyone. As it is, I get to watch everything I've built and heaved up out of the wrack sliding down into the sand again. Wrong again.
And so I try to put the pieces together another way. Suppose I had been building out of love, rather than out of the desire for domination? Well, one is surely a distorted image of the other -- but which of which? And how would I know? And who has time to find out? Because we're far out on the flats, and the tide is coming in.
This absolute conviction that I am wrong is one of the few constants of my life. It is a psychological phenomenon, not a philosophical one. Of course I am convinced of my wrongness: I always have been, and presumably I always will be. Gnawing on that is not going to yield any marrow.
No, I have to turn, and breathe deep, and open my hands. This is the shadow of a day of idleness, that's all. It means nothing. It is sending me no message.
Turn seawards. Let the tide come. Since when have I been afraid of the sea? Not my worst enemy could accuse me of that.