seeing the house through a skeleton lens.

sometimes i wonder how it would feel to borrow someone else's paradigm. each person has a set of protocols that his or her perspective automatically filters through when perceiving any given event; this set is made up of the entire collective of perceptions of all the previous events. i guess the first set of protocols are strictly genetic and real-time circumstantial. i see things the way i do, in part, because i was born in the summer rather than the winter; when i was two or three, i fell while climbing my mom's sewing machine table; when i was nine, my basketball team lost every game, save one; when i was twelve, i took a college entrance exam; when i was fifteen, my dad said he wished he'd had a normal son; and when i was eighteen, i had the good fortune to move to dothan. each event, and reaction to that event, builds the next one. i wonder what it would be like to be able to detatch myself from my way of seeing things, from my tendencies toward interpreting events in my habitual manner.

and so being me is kind of weird at the moment. i wonder, as i survey myself with the mind's eyes that i've developed, what it would feel like to see through a different set of eyes.

i feel like a hollowed out house. walls knocked down, sheetrock stripped off, floors broken out. certainly no furniture. no painted walls. some surfaces sanded down, some freshly refinished. empty but not abandoned. i feel very nondescript. i think i am probably alot less interesting than i used to be, but i think i have more structural integrity now than i did when the house had more personality.