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I ran to the ocean yesterday and it tentatively made me cry (figuratively?).

Made me realise the tentative nature of my subjectivity.

It is always so easy to think the reciprocal, that I am too much of a subject to indulge in the simple complexity of nature, but perhaps it is precisely the opposite.

That I as a subject am constantly threatened to fall into it. To fall into the ocean.

The ocean is a great analogy for the universe. (As trite as that may sound, and as trite as my justification of triteness may sound, infintely collapsing!)

I stood on the pier, and peered in tunnel vision at that expanse which I could not comprehend, but knew I lacked somehow.

I faded into and out of its beauty. Constantly fighting, pitted in a struggle against my want to collapse, and my subjectivity's defiance. Fractured between crying and discontent.

I stopped peering for a second, and moved by head downwards, to look at the water right below my field of vision, wherein I realised it was not the 'water' that I wanted to be a part of, but the entirety of the ocean.

That is, the drive is not to be water, or the ocean, but be the entirety of existence.

That sounds trite also. The quest for originality is a stifling endeavour.

To look inwards, not within ourselves but look inwards out of ourselves, as if we are not a subject. Like a secondary, more knowledgable subject, one which is detached, and more consienctious, and lesss subjectable to the whims of the all-ruling unconscious mind.

The moment we learn language, we continually fall into the conceit of the symbolic. The trauma thereby sustained is irreperable.

Write about a somnambulist.