Do You Like My Havering?
I never get anything done as I make time for people who want things from me. It's not that I hate people. I don't like people. I never meant to think anything of people. I imagine my apathy would disgust any other person and instead of trying to reconcile myself with society, I just avoid people who assume that I want anything of them. This is why strangers are such great companions. I hate the artifice of conversation that occurs when people see my ugly mug. I behold a person in regard to the words they are capable of. I look at them and wonder if they would ever say, of their own volition, anything profound. That is what I want. The words that break the commonplace.
I feel ugly. My face is not even average. It is strange and rare in its subtle deformity. My lips protrude and effect disgust. My eyes have circles under them. The roundness of my face makes me seem incompetent. I have always wanted to be liked. It was never within me to like myself. I wanted consolation from others. Therein is happiness. With acceptance of my entire being is the end of my weary struggle. Because I just wanted to be loved and cared little for the world further. Is my simplicity so vapid?
I don't know why I write things down. I feel that these words should be recorded. I enjoy reading the things I have written. There is a tranquility inherent in profound reflection. The effect of the true extraction of our subjective states is the sublime. These words are the kind that carry me through the late strains of the soul, when we stay awake and try to remember what we are living for, what we wished to have accomplished at the end of the day before we go to sleep, the end of the night without the satisfaction of having gained anything. This is how time haunts me.
I feel ugly. My face is not even average. It is strange and rare in its subtle deformity. My lips protrude and effect disgust. My eyes have circles under them. The roundness of my face makes me seem incompetent. I have always wanted to be liked. It was never within me to like myself. I wanted consolation from others. Therein is happiness. With acceptance of my entire being is the end of my weary struggle. Because I just wanted to be loved and cared little for the world further. Is my simplicity so vapid?
I don't know why I write things down. I feel that these words should be recorded. I enjoy reading the things I have written. There is a tranquility inherent in profound reflection. The effect of the true extraction of our subjective states is the sublime. These words are the kind that carry me through the late strains of the soul, when we stay awake and try to remember what we are living for, what we wished to have accomplished at the end of the day before we go to sleep, the end of the night without the satisfaction of having gained anything. This is how time haunts me.