(no subject)
Look at my ugly, wretched face and do not forget it; my death mask. It is a chalk mask with dead, dry poison behind it, like the death angel. It is what I have been, and what I never want to be again. The pouting disconsolate mouth, the flat, bored, numb, expressionless eyes: all symptoms of the foul decay within me. Paul wrote to me after my last honest letter to him saying that I had better go to get psychiatric treatment to root out the sources of my terrible problems. I smile about that, now, thinking: we all like to think we are important enough to need psychiatrists.
So here I sit, alone, in my room. I can’t surround myself with friends and chatter and oblivion because the few friends I do have are not yet here. I can’t deceive myself out of the bare, stark realization that no matter how enthusiastic you are, no matter how sure you are that your character is a fact of fate…nothing is real; past or future, when you are sitting alone in your room with the clock ticking loudly into the false, cheerful brilliance of the fluorescent light. If you have no past or no future which, after all, is all that the present is made of - the now - then you might as well dispose of the empty shell of yourself and commit suicide. But the cold, reasoning mass of gray entrails in my head which parrots “I think therefore I am,” whispers that there is always the turning moment, the upgrade, the new point of view. And so I wait and I think.
So here I sit, alone, in my room. I can’t surround myself with friends and chatter and oblivion because the few friends I do have are not yet here. I can’t deceive myself out of the bare, stark realization that no matter how enthusiastic you are, no matter how sure you are that your character is a fact of fate…nothing is real; past or future, when you are sitting alone in your room with the clock ticking loudly into the false, cheerful brilliance of the fluorescent light. If you have no past or no future which, after all, is all that the present is made of - the now - then you might as well dispose of the empty shell of yourself and commit suicide. But the cold, reasoning mass of gray entrails in my head which parrots “I think therefore I am,” whispers that there is always the turning moment, the upgrade, the new point of view. And so I wait and I think.