permanant area of posting as yet undetermined
I hate having to feel the compulsion to filter my entries.
I hate a lot of things. Sometimes, I hate myself- other times, i'm completely enthralled with myself. I 'd like to think that some day, that will change. Usually, I'm certain it most likely won't. I hate when people let me down, but I realize that if they let me down, its my fault for giving them that power over me. I am me, and I am what I am, or so that wise sage Popeye has been wont to say.
And really, what is the point of all that. You live and learn, and laugh and cry, and really who's to say when it's your time to live or time to die? Maybe the gods and godesses of fate are really just cruel beings after all. Maybe, I'm taking this all too seriously, and need to learn how to laugh again. Perhaps, I allow things to weigh far too heavily on my soul and worry more about living to some ideal it's likely I'll never attain. I strive to reach that ceiling, that ceiling that's always growing e'er higher, always mocking me saying...you're a white man, and white men can't jump. Scoffingly, i reply, fuck you- you're just a ceiling, and I may not ever jump high enough to touch your smooth surface, but I'm still going to try. Each time I make that effort will be self-affirming. I want you to watch me try, I want you to watch scream and cry or laugh and sigh, when all we want to know is why. Who knows why, who knows what or how? And really, aren't stream-of-conscious postings far more interesting to read, than some perfectly written, gramatticaly correct diatribe full of pithy nonsense designed to entertain, rather than enlighten?
This is my eternal question. I want that which I can never reach, satisfaction and perfection- which are damnable traits for a human to posess, however, since i'm an idiot half the damn time, perhaps it's fitting that I beat myself up so much, that my scars are more to my psyche than my body.
But really, who really pays attention to some long winded harangue littered with non-sequitors?
And now it seems, i lost my train of thought. Someone, pass me the Rit-
I hate a lot of things. Sometimes, I hate myself- other times, i'm completely enthralled with myself. I 'd like to think that some day, that will change. Usually, I'm certain it most likely won't. I hate when people let me down, but I realize that if they let me down, its my fault for giving them that power over me. I am me, and I am what I am, or so that wise sage Popeye has been wont to say.
And really, what is the point of all that. You live and learn, and laugh and cry, and really who's to say when it's your time to live or time to die? Maybe the gods and godesses of fate are really just cruel beings after all. Maybe, I'm taking this all too seriously, and need to learn how to laugh again. Perhaps, I allow things to weigh far too heavily on my soul and worry more about living to some ideal it's likely I'll never attain. I strive to reach that ceiling, that ceiling that's always growing e'er higher, always mocking me saying...you're a white man, and white men can't jump. Scoffingly, i reply, fuck you- you're just a ceiling, and I may not ever jump high enough to touch your smooth surface, but I'm still going to try. Each time I make that effort will be self-affirming. I want you to watch me try, I want you to watch scream and cry or laugh and sigh, when all we want to know is why. Who knows why, who knows what or how? And really, aren't stream-of-conscious postings far more interesting to read, than some perfectly written, gramatticaly correct diatribe full of pithy nonsense designed to entertain, rather than enlighten?
This is my eternal question. I want that which I can never reach, satisfaction and perfection- which are damnable traits for a human to posess, however, since i'm an idiot half the damn time, perhaps it's fitting that I beat myself up so much, that my scars are more to my psyche than my body.
But really, who really pays attention to some long winded harangue littered with non-sequitors?
And now it seems, i lost my train of thought. Someone, pass me the Rit-