I can no longer separate my self from my project and I don't know the extent to which this compromises the integrity of argument and my conclusions.
I am living right now in a lacuna in my own life narrative that I cannot quite understand or articulate. Perhaps despair might be considered the fear that the lacuna will be revealed as all there is; the fear that there is no other side to this hole or rupture.
What if I went away? "I could leave my life. I could change completely. Is it time?"* Would that be the reorientation Iris Murdoch discusses, or would that be an attempt to escape into fantasy?
When narrative stalls, is there some other way to propel oneself toward new meaning, or must one simply wait for shore or ship to appear?
*Shelley Jackson, "Sleep," in The Melancholy of Anatomy
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