Stream

A stream of consciousness that sets its own pace and pulls the reader with it; words flow like water, a few stops, a few capital letters, but mostly commas and semi-colons. A small sea of thought that grows vast as the questions come faster and expand; its waves increasing and building. The inner turmoil of people, of women; the conflicted, doubting self. Philosophic fiction. That is Clarice Lispector: unafraid of breaking rules; unafraid of honest prose. Unafraid, too, of showing us to ourselves. Alone, inside our own system, we know how to feel and act; with someone we contain ourselves and become unknowable. We ask: will we work? are we working? do I have regrets? The answers changing each time they are returned to: perhaps in the words alone or the tone, if not the actual meaning of the response; perhaps in how we tell the reason or story to ourselves. I felt this...; I felt that...; I thought...; I didn't think that...; and then the inevitable, beginning with: if I..., had I..., would I.... always trailing off with dot, dot, dot. These unrealised paths visited often, for it is here a stream of consciousness leads.

Picture credit: On the Stream of Life, 1896, Hugo Simberg (source WikiArt).

From journal, November 2021.