Phenomenological Reflection

Some things are appearing bright to me. Whatever bright it is; I guess I know it directly. I have an intuition that this thing is different from that thing. But the difference doesn't seem to come from any analysis of the thing itself, but rather a direct knowledge that the qualia are different. I see a cross. I wonder if this person is Catholic. There's a sense of kinship that seems to naturally grow when you become part of a new group, regardless of whether the members of that group are members de facto or de jure. I probably have more in common with the average Buddhist than the average Catholic. Then again, I'm not that much of a de facto member of the Church as well. There's no life in me. There are certain inpenetrable anxieties that afflict me over things I already know. I guess I should be in class right now, but I don't think I could be missing anything significant; or maybe I am; I'm not quite sure; I'm sick unto death. I feel this violent madness directed at the world. This is probably a most frequent intensional state. It's the anxiety, the Angst, of the world imposing itself on me in ways I can't understand; in ways I can't control. The violent urge seems to be justified. How do we expect ourselves to live in a world that so violently imposes itself on us. It's like existential rape. We try and try to impose ourselves back on all this sound and fury, but our voices don't and can't rise above it. Everyone whom I've loved seems to be a feature of this violent imposition. It's a quale I recognize as distinctly unique, but one which the world impresses, then yanks away at the first sign that I am seeking to impose myself on it. How can I begin to account for all this? We're so machine-dependent. It's technological gluttony. That's all too abstract. I want to be here, now, with her. Without her. With the thought of her in herself. But there is no one in themself. Being is not itself if not being-in-the-world. I just wish I could leave it. I wish there were a noumena, but there's not. Just an endless series of impressions, features, dreads, stillness, and abrupt silence.