Reading and enjoying Heidegger's Being and Time. Getting mind alternately blown and bemused. Smiling often, and looking down at my hand and saying things like "Being" and "Hand," very slowly.
If philosophy excites you to the least degree, the experience of coming into a new idea is identical to a cliche pot high, lifting every mundane fact of the world to the order of "Woah."
I've turned in my Master's thesis, and Faultline Journal is at the printers, and I'm in the mood for conceptualizing the past three years as a unit, and sighing.
Sigh. I find myself apologizing to myself frequently, teasingly, that I haven't more fully adopted the lifestyle of those from whom I come: family. I'm heading back to the world they are being in, and will be again with them, in their care, for awhile.
Conceptualizing myself and my others does cause a bad mood in me, Heidegger. You, without whose body can no longer be. You who can, however, still be named: Heidegger. Heidegger. Hand.
I suspect that I will find a way to overcome my forgetfulness enough to do what it is that seems right to me to do, considering my approaching death. No one can consider my death quite like I can. I'm not dying, but (in a manner of speaking) I am heading for it. A pioneer, on the Trail to Death.