(no subject)
When was the last time the pale young man felt this way? If he had to recall it could have been no less than 3 years ago when his mind wasnt as sharp or shaped as it had become now. Let us not assume he was in monumental form at this time but for all intensive purposes he had grown, its only natural.
three years ago is not important now however. Three years ago was filled with more angst and irrational behavior than any highschool could contain(dont we all remember and relish the years, though most would love to turn the clock back and start anew). However I keep getting sidetracked from what is important here. A pale young man felt absurd, uninspired, and unmotivated. What had brought this about?
The young man thought to himself about what he had been reading, writing, studying, and doing when he had not been doing the former. Perhaps it was the salinger he had just read. It always reminded him of the bell jar, that is franny and zooey of course, but mostly just Franny. As dreadful as he believed Plath to be he could only relate to Ester Greenwood, yet he was far from suicidal. His most recent paper was on a dreadful instalation art peice at his colleges art gallery, his thoughts was his paper must be as dreadful as the "art" itself. Before i move on he was also having a hard time deciding how to go about his term paper on some irishmens 2 act tragicomedy. Stress wasnt the problem though, the work he could handle and free time was bountiful. What was it then?
Locked up in his room with mountains of books strewn across the floor he began writing a letter to a girl who lived in Boston, the boy wished he lived in boston or anywhere for that matter even here. Perhaps you could say he wasn't living. He dropped the pen and dreamed of writing a novel not unlike Proust but dreams are farcrys from reality.
Of course he awoke. Of course he was dissapointed he hadnt written volume after volume of beautiful prose. Class, tired and uninspired he got out of bed and glanced at his vonnegut poster propped up against his wall given to him by his father a year ago.
"You have to have somebody to write for, You cant just open the window and make love to the world" it read.
He sighed bent over and grabbed a book from the floor at random. He didnt look at it and threw it down the stairs hoping it didnt fall to peices (which really is almost ridiculous notion when you think about it). Dizzily he put on the same pair of pants he refused to change for the past 2 months, then grabbed a shirt followed by an old cardigan that couldnt be considered out of style but that's not to say he didnt look good. Examining himself in the mirror he was almost satisfied but he was an insatiable narcissist(quite contradictary if you've been with me the last pages.) He ripped off his clothes and did some exercises, washed off in the bathroom and got dressed again. Still not 100% convinced with his attire and look he went downstairs anyway to attack the day or just put up with it, we'll assume it is the latter. He picked up the book, he tried not to look at it but like the times he tried not looking at the page of a book whilst reading he simply could not help but take a TINY glimpse which immediatly would tell him all he wished to know or not know.
"Shit" were the only word to escape his mouth and he let out a long sign with a strong hint of depression strewn in with it.
Eggs and toast like everyday, washed down with juice, milk, black coffee (in that specific order). The only section of the newspaper he was concerned with was the police beat, secretly he wished to find names of people he knew in it everyday but unfortionately there were none he recognized today.
three years ago is not important now however. Three years ago was filled with more angst and irrational behavior than any highschool could contain(dont we all remember and relish the years, though most would love to turn the clock back and start anew). However I keep getting sidetracked from what is important here. A pale young man felt absurd, uninspired, and unmotivated. What had brought this about?
The young man thought to himself about what he had been reading, writing, studying, and doing when he had not been doing the former. Perhaps it was the salinger he had just read. It always reminded him of the bell jar, that is franny and zooey of course, but mostly just Franny. As dreadful as he believed Plath to be he could only relate to Ester Greenwood, yet he was far from suicidal. His most recent paper was on a dreadful instalation art peice at his colleges art gallery, his thoughts was his paper must be as dreadful as the "art" itself. Before i move on he was also having a hard time deciding how to go about his term paper on some irishmens 2 act tragicomedy. Stress wasnt the problem though, the work he could handle and free time was bountiful. What was it then?
Locked up in his room with mountains of books strewn across the floor he began writing a letter to a girl who lived in Boston, the boy wished he lived in boston or anywhere for that matter even here. Perhaps you could say he wasn't living. He dropped the pen and dreamed of writing a novel not unlike Proust but dreams are farcrys from reality.
Of course he awoke. Of course he was dissapointed he hadnt written volume after volume of beautiful prose. Class, tired and uninspired he got out of bed and glanced at his vonnegut poster propped up against his wall given to him by his father a year ago.
"You have to have somebody to write for, You cant just open the window and make love to the world" it read.
He sighed bent over and grabbed a book from the floor at random. He didnt look at it and threw it down the stairs hoping it didnt fall to peices (which really is almost ridiculous notion when you think about it). Dizzily he put on the same pair of pants he refused to change for the past 2 months, then grabbed a shirt followed by an old cardigan that couldnt be considered out of style but that's not to say he didnt look good. Examining himself in the mirror he was almost satisfied but he was an insatiable narcissist(quite contradictary if you've been with me the last pages.) He ripped off his clothes and did some exercises, washed off in the bathroom and got dressed again. Still not 100% convinced with his attire and look he went downstairs anyway to attack the day or just put up with it, we'll assume it is the latter. He picked up the book, he tried not to look at it but like the times he tried not looking at the page of a book whilst reading he simply could not help but take a TINY glimpse which immediatly would tell him all he wished to know or not know.
"Shit" were the only word to escape his mouth and he let out a long sign with a strong hint of depression strewn in with it.
Eggs and toast like everyday, washed down with juice, milk, black coffee (in that specific order). The only section of the newspaper he was concerned with was the police beat, secretly he wished to find names of people he knew in it everyday but unfortionately there were none he recognized today.