At the time, I had believed (with some reverence) that this universe was only a solipsist projection, and that it revealed itself to the measure of my fears, the gravity of my shame, the durability of my delusions. This place, I thought, was all about scrubbing the soul, an opportunity to evaluate (and question) both the sentimental obligations and the dutiful ambitions that still held me here. The challenge on this moon was to live in engagement with the self, and by so doing, bring authenticity to one's connections with others. This was a way of being alone in the world: to be neither unbalanced by the tone or the substance inherent in the expectant stories that others might share nor too desperate oneself to be "understood," one's speech pressured, trying hungrily to piece some truth together--a poorly pasted collage--for whatever audience you might be able to assemble. Thus conversation, invariably, underlined the expansive isolation that contained everything. It was perhaps better to remain quiet, to allow the words of others to pass around oneself, immune to their meanings but attentive to the breeze that carried them.
"This journal is not a mere literary diversion. The further I progress, reducing to order what my past life suggests, and the more I persist in the rigor of composition--of the chapters, of the sentences, of the book itself--the more do I feel myself hardening in my will to utilize, for virtuous ends, my former hardships. I feel their power." --Jean Genet
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