I, eye, I, Me, me, Me.

I spend the day in and out of my apartment—mainly in than out. My sister stays transfixed on her computer screen all during this time. Every time I pass through the living room, I see her there, crying. Politics. Crying. Power. Tears. The world. Debate. Election. Outside on the balcony with a cigarette burning down between her fingers, her voice yelling through the phone. I have become concerned with myself—with my own daily focuses—what I decide to take in from my exteriors. I have fifty pages left of The Waves by Virginia Woolf. As can be seen from the underlines that rule the pages, I have read this novel before, but do not remember it. Still, after a second read, I do not remember it. I adore and will go so far to say, live by, some of her passages but cannot ignore the fact that I have no idea what the novel has been about. The truth is I never can provide a synopsis and I do not read for plot. I read for language, for design, for sensibility. I have just begun reading The Implacable Order of Things by Jose Luis Peixoto. My goal is to follow the story, even though I already can tell I am extracting the essence. I am searching for soul while my twin sister sits crying on the couch. She does not follow me and I do not follow her. I wonder whether I am truly missing the mark. Supposedly we both are intense; she is serious, I am passionate. The political versus the personal—although one influences the other. She is firmly opposed to consumerism, while the only way I know how to live is by absorbing this thing called "living" in "life". We are both constantly overwhelmed by and in our separate ways. She focuses on the mechanics the world runs on and I focus on the mechanics of the individual’s interior. We both have an intense interest to be masterminds on human operations. Her study is tangible. Mine is metaphysical. I find what is not said or shown, but thought, and subject it in order to give it presence. Am I an idiot?