March 22, Post 9

Life, the way I’m living, is an opera.

Or, since that's a bit grandiose, it's at least like a period of music.

There are spans (like now) where I live in turmoil, with nothing in order and a constant churning in my stomach. That’s the recitative of my opera, or my diminished seventh in the progression. The whole time I'm in that span, I feel like time is taking me somewhere, like the days are leading to something that wants to come into being – that's leading to the tonic, or the aria, depending on the metaphor.

I like the musical period metaphor because it does show that sense of desiring to change, of inevitability, of momentum, but I like the opera metaphor because it seems, paradoxically, like it’s only during those times of strife that anything changes or that I accomplish anything. Roquentin talks about how "nothing happens while you live," (39), and in his sense, that's true; you can't live and tell the story of your life simultaneously. Nonetheless, I think it's more than that: it seems to me that nothing happens while you're content. The calm periods where I feel like I am where I ought to be are, like the aria in the metaphor, beautiful, but ultimately stagnant.

Floor of the apartment kitchen/hospital office, TN - 23 March 2013.