Each time I sit down to write I suppose things that I oughtn't. I have faults I thought not to have. I have become disloyal to myself. I am a cynical person who eats cyanide jellybeans. It is all the fault of the one who lives in my head who is not me. However, whoever it is is not to be blamed. Things happen. It is not the fault of anyone. This incredibly terrible and wonderful world we live in is full of terrors and wonders. Not to be rediculously rhetorical or anything. I'm just blabbing at this point.

I've done it. I played in a Shakespeare production. It was marvelous. I was the good Doctor Pinch, who was less than good by troth, but yet it's interesting to think of the way things are. I've been listening to Stravinsky's Rite of Spring too much to keep my sanity intact. Yet it's all alright with me.

It's going to be a long time before I'll be able to quiet my digits and desist this contemptuous yammering of my fingers upon the keys. It isn't in the movies he quotes, nor the things he says nor the way I've treated him that bothers me most of all. It is the fact that the subject of our discourse was that he was not religious and that by being religious he feels people are fake. Has he then decieved me for the sake of "truth"?

When he, one day, says that I am incapable of handling the truth. That truth being that worship is entirely incomprehensibly irrational and that all those who worship are obviously fabricating something for their own advancement in society or in some other way, that the Truth is that God does not in fact, exist at all, that Christ's life was entirely pointless and that the comprehension of all religious things are hypocritical...
Then the next he tells me that religion is what he needs in his life, that God is impacting him directly anyway...that prayer does affect him. Is he lying? Is he lying because he feels I am incapable of handling the truth? Is everything a lie?


Men were decievers ever...

I don't quite know what to think. I have two choices, optimism or pessimism and I feel I have come to a crossroads. If I have the courage, I will dare to be optimistic and maybe, just maybe, this will turn out for the better. There's an equal chance that it won't turn out for the better and that will cause my optimism to fail and myself to be rapt in foolishness, finally realizing regretting for the rest of my life the mistake I made in hoping for the best.
If I do not have the courage, I will assume pessimism and break this entire thing off presently, move on with my life and he and I will remain trite aquaintances for the rest of time. Aside from the tragedy of a mere, meagre, trite aquaintance being derived from so passionate a love, and not mentioning the sickness that has often been called dispair, I quite feel that if the pessimist within me o'ertakes my mind, then why not give up on a great many other things, ultimately and namely my life altogether. The only benefit to being pessimistic is the fact that I may avoid falling further...if one is optimistic and proves to be wrong, it's a great deal more of a fall, a hurt, an embarressment than one who is pessimistic about it all along.

In the end the love you take is equal to the love you make.

Nevermind. I'm sick of thinking about all of this. I can hope for the best, and yes, I dare to. I do. Yet the things that really scare me are (1) The point of finding truth of anger and the realities of that truth (2) The idea of creating drama for the sake of drama. I've already screamed at him. What the heck is going to happen next? I am beginning to see our fights escalating and I really don't need to go up a fight escalator right now. I know where that can lead. I know where, statistically speaking, it is likely to lead.

I have other things in my life to worry about than this right now. The point of me being in college is to get my degree. It is to become educated. Meeting all the amazing people along the way has been wonderful and fun, traumatic and telling. I've learned more from my friends than from my professors truths of this world.

Yet this is coming to a point where I'm not certain why I am here anymore. I have helped people heal. People have helped me. Yet I feel that I have been sanded down to the bare bone of who I am, and now it is the world : the professors, the friends, the loves, the hates ....there is hardly anything but bone left, and that too they are chipping at. It is a greed in a way, I feel I have been subject to. The only way I have been able to cope with this greed is (1) to chip away at other people, which is something I can hardly abide doing - thereby must do it craftily - and has caused the true retaliation of many if not all the ones whom I love to take a step back and feel only for themselves the harm I have caused them. (I won't pretend to be coherant, but you may pretend that I am)
(2) to chip away at myself, for after all, if you cannot beat them, you may join them. It is an age old lesson taught to children in cartoons throughout all ages. If I build myself up, then I am arrogant, if I work hard silently, I am contemptuous. This and other things bring me to John Lennon's working class hero.

They hurt you at home and they hit you at school,
They hate you if you're clever and they despise a fool,
Till you're so fucking crazy you can't follow their rules,
A working class hero is something to be...

It has alot of truth to it, yet...it can be poisonous to be cynical.
People are of the mindset-these days especially-that being happy/joyous/vivacious/ ... and to be falsely happy is the most dangerous and terrible of ways to be. While this is true, I have found through my own experience, namely those filled with the truth of the cynic I've become, it is equally as dangerous and terrible to be filled with negitivity. It is entirely stupid and silly to forcefeed myself cake in the hopes of my life getting better, it is equally stupid and silly to feed upon the bitterness of life in the hopes of showing people that I do not eat cake. It is entirely rediculous of me to put on a happy face just because people expect me to. It is also entirely rediculous for me to cause myself to constantly feel unduly upset for no real reason. It's better alwithal not to feel anything.

Which is why numbness is so desireable.


Speaking of numbness, one might question the ways in which one may cause damage to onesself. Leaving entirely out the question of why, let us examine more creative and unorthodox ways in which people damage themselves.
Rather, first let us name the normal ones. Drinking is most popular, damage through jollity. Huzzah. Then there is overeating and the occasional smoker. A number of us (college students) decide to draw blood and the masochism of being sleep deprived is enjoyed by all. These are too mainstream, perhaps for the likes of me.
Ergo, I have decided to think of different ways of self-harm. Those of atonal music, those of bad grammer, those of friendless yammerings to onesself. Those of Stravinsky, Lennon...those of Shakespeare, those of the eyes and fingertips. Those of caffeine. Those of ambition. For what better way to harm onesself than feining success and ultimately dying?
I will paint with red paint. I will decieve blue skies. I will pray fervently, and perhaps masochism will turn to optimism and in the light of hope I may reside once more.

I must now ask myself the one question that will have my mind for some time. If there is fear in beauty, is there then, joy in self distruction? Isn't that ultimately what life is about anyway? Death. We all ultimately cause our own demise, whether knowing it or not. We are all to blame for our own deaths because even the "accidents" could have been avoided with some forethought...correct? It doesn't much matter though. I think that part of this problem is that nothing can be entirely erased.

No amount of smiling can change the fact that things are not really good right now. For anyone. This is the end of this incredibly rediculous rant. Anyway. I have a number of things to examine as it be right now.

Listen to Stravinsky's Rite of Spring if you have the chance. Think of the riots it caused in Vienna when the ballet was first shown.

Fair is foul. Foul is fair.