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The tacit & salty.

I know surprising little about what I do, or why. Given the time for any sort of anamnesis or analysis, I'm often confronted with the revelation that the acts which would seemingly most clearly disclose me are often quite tacit in their origins. One is confronted with the image of the Aeschylean depths, with its undertows and imperceptible currents. Kraken are sometimes dragged-up from the depths, and sailors often swallowed into it like broken cork. Freud and Jung were silly enough to suppose that seas were contained and compartmentalized into each and every human skull, that each hominid amongst us was tasked with plunging the tepid pools of our own brain pans, and hunting the minnows spawned in the wading puddles between our ears. Blame it on Descartes.

I do not always know what I do, for it occasions that my puddle is splashed by seas. I am not myself it seems; with a briny hand, I only tell tales of greater waters. This is curious.

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