swirling mass of protoplasm
I dedicate so much time to interpreting interactions. I pass a girl on my way down the path. We exchange a smile. Was hers a stand-in for a greeting? Or was it a manifestation of her judgmental laughter at the ridiculous way I arch my shoulders when I carry my backpack? It seems that the time I spend trying to come to a conclusion (invariably, I wind up at a stalemate; there’s just not enough information) could better be spent thinking about something, I don’t know, worthwhile. But the thing is — I don’t know that I’d much enjoy a world where the simplest action didn’t provoke a potentially unending list of interpretations and/or responses. With one thought I go one way, with another, I go the next. Now I can’t help but think about all the millions of little mes spawned after the trillions of interactions I’ve had over the course of my life. Did the part of me that flushed when I dropped a tomato on the floor wind up somewhere else than the side of me that self-righteously, if not slightly abashedly, picked up the vegetable? This is a physical impossibility. So this must mean that somehow all of these incongruous reactions and responses are somehow synthesized within myself. Little wonder I’m always confused.
