In addendum to my last post about my recalcitrance to share Tibet because I am selfish and greedy and I won't share my lunch with you either, this same selfishness also manifests as a sort of anti-consumption as well.
Since returning a fortnight ago, I haven't watched any movies, nor read any books, nor even thought about starting back in my own fiction. I haven't read or watched anything of substance on the internet, be it articles, essays or clips. I haven't corresponded with any real depth.
Tibet had an effect and infected me like no where else I've been to date. This pile of books about Tibet I have I am famished to read, but am afraid to go near. I avert my eyes from news about the country even as I seek it out. I want to know more, more, more.
But to do so will overlay the time I spent there. Should I expand my knowledge of the place, I won't be able to consider my own experience without viewing it through the filter of that knowledge. There is nothing more to do with life but learn and none of us should ever shy away from it, but, but, but.
I want to carry the space Tibet made in my mind as long as I can. It's a delicate thing, vast and inexplicable, and by simply going through each day that space gets smaller. To do what seems so frivolous a thing as read a novel would only hasten that contraction. I want to savour this rare silhouette of an emotion. Putting things in or turning my mind to other matters is a distraction I don't want.
Inevitably, Tibet will sublimate as Melbourne's own idiosyncrasies change the colour of my thoughts.
Until then, I stay still and silent.