Strong feelings are similar to intoxication, they impose a distorting field on perception, judgment and will. Normal functioning is still available but distanced and squeezed, as if seen via a squint, and the subject of such functioning, the home self, is seen as less natural, more of a historic compromise grown into an institution but with shallow roots. How little it takes to push the mind into states of passion, envy, desire, hatred, guilt and all their concomitants. At a certain intensity their origination in childhood is clear although the precise details are cloudy; faint memories being stirred up of how it felt at one time to encounter such a storm of feelings, how shocking to first discover that some one, that you, could very well be in the place to which you had now been transported. As if in the warm and humid half-light of inseparation, of what in retrospect would seem like utter dependence and trust, a pure difference erupted, out of an elsewhere that you vaguely knew about and that others were supposed to deal with, you watched it with drowsy contemplation, a piece that didn't fit, that jarred with the whole weave of things, tangles, clashes, war, overflow, until you suddenly found it was you that was that was that. The moment of this discovery is the shadow of presencing, and so a face of presencing always turned away, and historicised by what's known as your life.