David Michael Miller

“This, I believe, is the manifestation of some deeper, existential, probably trite-sounding concern. That buried thing which we try to distract ourselves from and forget, and the more successfully we do so the harder we fall when we inevitably trip over it. I'm talking, of course, about that gastric feeling that, if you're like me, you might get when you're silently sitting alone in your room or when you're lying in bed trying to fall asleep with nothing but your thoughts. I'm talking about that perhaps cliché pang of recognizing your infinite insignificance in the scheme of the universe and that acute feeling of being crushingly, crushingly disconnected and worthless and alone. That sense of being perennially trapped, inescapably encaged in a unitary body of flesh and blood and bone. Always disconnected. Forever worthless. Perpetually alone. And never ever free from your Self. To describe the feeling in more physical terms, it's like holding your breath while simultaneously breathing. Or here, in more poetic terms, it is a wrenching of my gut, as if the pit of my stomach is being squeezed in a tight clenched fist, and the entirety of my being can only be recognized as the goo oozing from between the clenched fist's fingers.”


David Michael Miller, The Becomer
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The Becomer The Becomer by David Michael Miller
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