Saturday, April 27, 2019

Can't Read Chekhov At Night

Introspection and reflection require a measurable investment of thought, so, when you call me out for stargazing and aloofitity keep in mind that I am likely 5 - 7 years behind real time. Can't read Chekhov at night because then you write 3 or 4 blog posts in your head while lying in bed that just get erased after a night of semi-sleeping. Can't read Chekhov at night because all the enlightenment you gain gets immediately challenged by the gods of negation and confrontation when they find old, semi-forgotten wounds and force you to look at them. Old wounds. The internal ego always plays the Hollywood hero and says "look at me, look how suave and distinguished I can be in the face of surgically-targeted adversity," but really the success-bet is 50/50 at best. Can't read Chekhov at night because after a week of illness you understand that illness, while at least no fun for some and much more profound for others, is a gift because illness fosters empathy. And while the market value for introspection races indignantly towards zero, at least with empathy, it's something you can't be faulted for, for possessing.

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