(no subject)
Heh, Citizenadam; Now I am Nietzsche. Or at least that part of him which you mentioned in the comment about my date post. I must be completely honest about shit if I am going to ever do something about it: this feeling is terrible. Impossible to deny. Somehow, I messed up, not disappointingly to T.S. Eliot, there was no bang but a whimper and I created the noise. Like myself.
Obviously, one aspect of it will change; when around women I'm unsure with I will eventually stop acting less than myself. It's not as if it's terrible, it's just enough of the wrong way that it doesn't work out, when I am with such a female. Believe me, it is not as would be expected; all signs lead to everything truly going fine when it does not, but it does not. It would be ironic if it were not so common: my fabricated need around her to find something to say cuts the feet from under my words, and poisons those words which do come. The need's existence defeats its own purpose; if the fallacious need died, were murdered, the natural solution would present itself. This translates into more than words, of course, and the entire being destroys its own capacity at the discovery of verbal failure. The becoming of a dork whence never there had previously appeared one, for anyone's money.
It is a terrible feeling, the worst of it being that I know I have the ability to be so much better. However, I am surprised at my capacity to shift the feeling from hollow failure to fuel for further dedication. It is impossible to do anything but build my tower thicker, taller, add more rooms and build their walls out thickly too, I do not mind feeling or saying the typical defensive "I am better off anyway, my art is better off, my self is better off, this way," yet I don't, in fact, for the first time, I don't mind admitting its falseness and actually not agreeing to it, but still feeling more muscle in my will than even when I am the most complacent and peaceful king of this field. There is nothing like "This is the best; if it is not, it shall be."
And though it is not as bad as I've made it out to be, externally and even perhaps on her side of it it may not seem much of a failure at all, yet its failure is almost or maybe worse because of it, because of the slowly-poisonous failure I may have awkwardly slipped into the situation rather than the dynamite with which I otherwise might have toppled the entire bridge. And this leads only one place, not what before would have been inevitable-- its poisonous effect doubly beating back and acting on the poisoner as he distresses on accidentally slipping the vial into the wrong drink-- but that the solution is on its way, is already here, is being installed and will soon sputter on, is already on and working, has already worked. It shall be. It is.
p.s. I am making too big a deal of the event, in retrospect. But that's cool, it lead to some writing I am pleased with.
Well it's true, I made way too big a deal of it. Haha, oh well. All's well &c...
Obviously, one aspect of it will change; when around women I'm unsure with I will eventually stop acting less than myself. It's not as if it's terrible, it's just enough of the wrong way that it doesn't work out, when I am with such a female. Believe me, it is not as would be expected; all signs lead to everything truly going fine when it does not, but it does not. It would be ironic if it were not so common: my fabricated need around her to find something to say cuts the feet from under my words, and poisons those words which do come. The need's existence defeats its own purpose; if the fallacious need died, were murdered, the natural solution would present itself. This translates into more than words, of course, and the entire being destroys its own capacity at the discovery of verbal failure. The becoming of a dork whence never there had previously appeared one, for anyone's money.
It is a terrible feeling, the worst of it being that I know I have the ability to be so much better. However, I am surprised at my capacity to shift the feeling from hollow failure to fuel for further dedication. It is impossible to do anything but build my tower thicker, taller, add more rooms and build their walls out thickly too, I do not mind feeling or saying the typical defensive "I am better off anyway, my art is better off, my self is better off, this way," yet I don't, in fact, for the first time, I don't mind admitting its falseness and actually not agreeing to it, but still feeling more muscle in my will than even when I am the most complacent and peaceful king of this field. There is nothing like "This is the best; if it is not, it shall be."
And though it is not as bad as I've made it out to be, externally and even perhaps on her side of it it may not seem much of a failure at all, yet its failure is almost or maybe worse because of it, because of the slowly-poisonous failure I may have awkwardly slipped into the situation rather than the dynamite with which I otherwise might have toppled the entire bridge. And this leads only one place, not what before would have been inevitable-- its poisonous effect doubly beating back and acting on the poisoner as he distresses on accidentally slipping the vial into the wrong drink-- but that the solution is on its way, is already here, is being installed and will soon sputter on, is already on and working, has already worked. It shall be. It is.
p.s. I am making too big a deal of the event, in retrospect. But that's cool, it lead to some writing I am pleased with.
Well it's true, I made way too big a deal of it. Haha, oh well. All's well &c...