(no subject)
"I think that is the big danger in keeping a diary: you exaggerate everything. You continually force the truth because you're always looking for something." -- Jean-Paul Sartre
Just keep that in mind as a disclaimer.
As much as I enjoy the above quote, I don't know if it was a good idea to begin Nausea when so many odd thoughts are already festering in the cesspool that I call my mind. I felt so strange tonight. I stared at the stars, and for awhile they were comforting, a mother's arms, because they're so immense and fiery and yet look so tiny and cold from the asphalt in an empty fluorescent church parking lot at night. I thought perhaps my problems (or my perceived problems, which aren't really real problems at all) could be like that; if I could only get far enough away, I would see only the faintest pinpricks in the sky, and then nothing. But slowly, the stars began to frighten me, as I realized how truly powerful and deadly they were; I was the small one, not them. I thought about other things, like how I wished he would touch me, stroke my face, perhaps, but then I felt bad for having such thoughts. I felt bad for wishing to be alone with him, and for wishing to be alone with myself. I just suddenly felt suffocated by the world; at school, at home, everywhere I turn there are people telling me what to do, what to think, they're listening to everything I say so that I can't ever say what I want. I feel like maybe I've ruined everything with my little fit. The sounds were too loud, millions of insects fornicating just beyond my reach, dogs howling, trains growling at the empty night air. I liked hearing his voice: not the actual words, but simply the cadence of his speech. It soothed me. But then he stopped, and I worried about what he wasn't saying. This is all so ridiculous. Words are so ridiculous. They can't express anything correctly.
Just keep that in mind as a disclaimer.
As much as I enjoy the above quote, I don't know if it was a good idea to begin Nausea when so many odd thoughts are already festering in the cesspool that I call my mind. I felt so strange tonight. I stared at the stars, and for awhile they were comforting, a mother's arms, because they're so immense and fiery and yet look so tiny and cold from the asphalt in an empty fluorescent church parking lot at night. I thought perhaps my problems (or my perceived problems, which aren't really real problems at all) could be like that; if I could only get far enough away, I would see only the faintest pinpricks in the sky, and then nothing. But slowly, the stars began to frighten me, as I realized how truly powerful and deadly they were; I was the small one, not them. I thought about other things, like how I wished he would touch me, stroke my face, perhaps, but then I felt bad for having such thoughts. I felt bad for wishing to be alone with him, and for wishing to be alone with myself. I just suddenly felt suffocated by the world; at school, at home, everywhere I turn there are people telling me what to do, what to think, they're listening to everything I say so that I can't ever say what I want. I feel like maybe I've ruined everything with my little fit. The sounds were too loud, millions of insects fornicating just beyond my reach, dogs howling, trains growling at the empty night air. I liked hearing his voice: not the actual words, but simply the cadence of his speech. It soothed me. But then he stopped, and I worried about what he wasn't saying. This is all so ridiculous. Words are so ridiculous. They can't express anything correctly.