Happiness is not necessarily a warm gun.
I'm happy. My life, while not exactly going anywhere fast, is in a pleasant stagnation. It gives me time for personal development. My new job is pretty easy and perfect for my schedule, school is going ok, though i need to to a paper pretty soon. It's two weeks late already, but I'm just not inspired to write about housing in the U.S. and the world, and the economic factors involnd therein. I want to just write fiction, just for myself, to get better. i have a pretty good story, but it's too long to post here.
I just need emotional input to write, that's something I had forgotten. The story i wrote, the first good story I've ever really wrote, was only good because I cared about it, and about the person who inspired it. I need things like love and sadness, joy and confusion, like a printer needs ink. And it feels like i use them up, take the vitality out of them for a while, the emotions die down while they're pouring out through a pen or a keyboard. They fill up again with life and experience. God that was an awful metaphor. Too pretentious. I ned to write down to about a high school reading level, because most of my friends don't know words like lugubrious, or voracious, or exigency. I only do because of Bad Religion lyrics, comic books, science fiction, and a love of vocabulary. I need a lot of words to accurately describe things, especially the contours of the human internal landscape, and some are bigger than others.
I think I'm in love, and it's a feeling i missed. New love is usually exciting, but only if you get to share it with the person you're stuck on. Mine is subdued, waiting. Imagine a pot simmering on a low boil, but filled with blood instead of spaghetti or whatever, and you've got my heart. Ugh. Awful metaphor. Anyway, it's sad sometimes, but the joy she brings me is so much more. I just feel happy with her, whatever we're doing. And for her, I don't think it's weird or anything, I think she just likes to be cared about. I'm not obsessive or anything, I think about everything too much. I'm actually doing really well, considering I have a history of terrible painful crushes all through high school. But then again, this is no crush. Whatever. She likes being around me, and that's enough. I'm happy for other reasons than love, anyway. But it helps.
The only thing I'm missing, the one thing that has been noticeably absent for most of my life, is a real reason to live. I drift from day to day, without true purpose or meaning to anything I do. I try to make the world a better place in small ways, in my own little corner of it, but it's not enough. Humanity is still headed for doom, sometime this century I believe. And Jesus is not fucking coming back, so we have to save ourselves. I know there are others like me, heroes waiting for a cause, waiting for the menace to reveal itself and give us all a target. Technological, biological, alien, or just plain old WWIII, it's coming and we have to stop it if we ever want to leave this planet and explore the stars. Humanity heading off into space to colonize and leaving the earth a dessicated husk of burning waste is the saddest thing i can imagine. We should leave the earth to let it regrow, let it claim out cities and highways, let the moss and lichen cover our monuments. Maybe live here again when we can respect it.
Well, that'll do it. I wonder if anyone besides the people I know reads this? Nobody comments, because nobody cares who doesn't know you, and nobody listens anyway, so fuck it. I'll write more when I have something to write about.
I just need emotional input to write, that's something I had forgotten. The story i wrote, the first good story I've ever really wrote, was only good because I cared about it, and about the person who inspired it. I need things like love and sadness, joy and confusion, like a printer needs ink. And it feels like i use them up, take the vitality out of them for a while, the emotions die down while they're pouring out through a pen or a keyboard. They fill up again with life and experience. God that was an awful metaphor. Too pretentious. I ned to write down to about a high school reading level, because most of my friends don't know words like lugubrious, or voracious, or exigency. I only do because of Bad Religion lyrics, comic books, science fiction, and a love of vocabulary. I need a lot of words to accurately describe things, especially the contours of the human internal landscape, and some are bigger than others.
I think I'm in love, and it's a feeling i missed. New love is usually exciting, but only if you get to share it with the person you're stuck on. Mine is subdued, waiting. Imagine a pot simmering on a low boil, but filled with blood instead of spaghetti or whatever, and you've got my heart. Ugh. Awful metaphor. Anyway, it's sad sometimes, but the joy she brings me is so much more. I just feel happy with her, whatever we're doing. And for her, I don't think it's weird or anything, I think she just likes to be cared about. I'm not obsessive or anything, I think about everything too much. I'm actually doing really well, considering I have a history of terrible painful crushes all through high school. But then again, this is no crush. Whatever. She likes being around me, and that's enough. I'm happy for other reasons than love, anyway. But it helps.
The only thing I'm missing, the one thing that has been noticeably absent for most of my life, is a real reason to live. I drift from day to day, without true purpose or meaning to anything I do. I try to make the world a better place in small ways, in my own little corner of it, but it's not enough. Humanity is still headed for doom, sometime this century I believe. And Jesus is not fucking coming back, so we have to save ourselves. I know there are others like me, heroes waiting for a cause, waiting for the menace to reveal itself and give us all a target. Technological, biological, alien, or just plain old WWIII, it's coming and we have to stop it if we ever want to leave this planet and explore the stars. Humanity heading off into space to colonize and leaving the earth a dessicated husk of burning waste is the saddest thing i can imagine. We should leave the earth to let it regrow, let it claim out cities and highways, let the moss and lichen cover our monuments. Maybe live here again when we can respect it.
Well, that'll do it. I wonder if anyone besides the people I know reads this? Nobody comments, because nobody cares who doesn't know you, and nobody listens anyway, so fuck it. I'll write more when I have something to write about.