My Highest Goal in Life is to Appear in a Book of Quotations
Morality is like trying to blind oneself in order to see clearer.
Pardon me while I have a strange interlude:
I feel more and more like a rank imitator, some kind of aberration of a monstrosity hiding within a garment of flesh. That’s not really a depressed feeling, or me delving into some kind of abject melancholia (as I often do,) just a feeling as though I’m alien, something thoroughly inhuman. One of these days this poorly crafted mask I’ve made for myself will fall off, and you’ll see an insect eye staring back at you. I’m not even sure what qualifiers I’m using to qualify humanity, but whatever they are, I don’t feel like I meet my own requirements.
Feelings, nothing more than feelings… That’s one of those things I feel inexorably divorced from. Somewhere along the line everything stopped making sense, and I stopped caring if it made sense or not. More and more I find myself just going along for the ride, chaos within chaos without.
No matter, never mind. Or perhaps the reverse.
Maybe I don’t feel so much alien as alienating. Perhaps I should drop the topic entirely and pretend I just wrote about how incapable I’ve become of reading Sartre and Camus without secretly wondering if they were writing my memoirs for me in advance, how I don’t find it at all frustrating to be consigned to the traits of a fictional or semi-fictional character (Harvey Pekar, Joel from Eternal Sunshine, or any of Woody Allen’s nebbish alter-egos,) and perhaps how my iTunes keeps playing the same songs over and over again on random.
Seriously, I’ve heard the 12-second “Wreck My Car” bit from “Fingertips” like 10 times in the last day.
Pardon me while I have a strange interlude:
I feel more and more like a rank imitator, some kind of aberration of a monstrosity hiding within a garment of flesh. That’s not really a depressed feeling, or me delving into some kind of abject melancholia (as I often do,) just a feeling as though I’m alien, something thoroughly inhuman. One of these days this poorly crafted mask I’ve made for myself will fall off, and you’ll see an insect eye staring back at you. I’m not even sure what qualifiers I’m using to qualify humanity, but whatever they are, I don’t feel like I meet my own requirements.
Feelings, nothing more than feelings… That’s one of those things I feel inexorably divorced from. Somewhere along the line everything stopped making sense, and I stopped caring if it made sense or not. More and more I find myself just going along for the ride, chaos within chaos without.
No matter, never mind. Or perhaps the reverse.
Maybe I don’t feel so much alien as alienating. Perhaps I should drop the topic entirely and pretend I just wrote about how incapable I’ve become of reading Sartre and Camus without secretly wondering if they were writing my memoirs for me in advance, how I don’t find it at all frustrating to be consigned to the traits of a fictional or semi-fictional character (Harvey Pekar, Joel from Eternal Sunshine, or any of Woody Allen’s nebbish alter-egos,) and perhaps how my iTunes keeps playing the same songs over and over again on random.
Seriously, I’ve heard the 12-second “Wreck My Car” bit from “Fingertips” like 10 times in the last day.