(no subject)
Dear Friend,
I hate summer. Or at least the weather. I'll never understand why so many people flock to Los Angeles just to turn crispy in the midst of ninety and hundred degree weather. Then again, most actors and aren't known for their intelligence.
Thus the world tumbles slowly about its axis, and time goes on. Yay.
Oh: I decided yesterday that there really isn't any reason that the universe hasn't been more-or-less-happily existing forever; it's always possible that, for certain systems, the Western ideas of 'beginning' and 'end' simply don't apply. Yet, on the other hand, the universe has (supposedly!) been shown to be continually expanding, implying that, sometime long ago, all known matter was compressed into a point of infinite density- like a black hole. But when a thing (aka the cosmos in this case) becomes too large, it collapses upon itself to form yet another black hole. We puny creatures may be caught in a never-ending cycle, a Moebius loop of epic proportions, where there could have been a beginning to the chain- or not. I've just come to accept that both are equally possible. Of course, I'll never know what the hell actually happened, but it's still fun to think about.
Another thing I've decided is that my life is ridiculously uneventful, especially after reading too much Burroughs (William S.) [Naked Lunch], Chuck Palahnuik [Fight Club], and Robert Anton Wilson [The Illuminatus! Trilogy]. I highly recommend them...they've been key to my development as a thinker, though more than a little twisted. Fuck, all of them are outright deformed. But, right now at least, Burroughs and Wilson in particular have birthed a craving for sex, drugs, and action, in no particular order. (Actually, scratch the sex since I'm asexual and hormone-less.) I want to blur reality with acid; forget this constant depression with heroin; fight the man and win.
But I won't. For one, I wouldn't be doing it for the right reasons, and two, I'm a bit of a coward. I'd shoot up for the sake of the track marks left upon my arm, for the attention and coolness bestowed upon me. I'd suck on sugar cubes just to exaggerate my experience for my gaping audiences. I'd swagger about and show off my bruises so that someone will notice. So that I would be different. It's hard to do something when you know, and despise, exactly why you're doing it. 'Cause I'm terrified of being lost in the crowd- which makes me just like everyone else.
Love,
C.
I hate summer. Or at least the weather. I'll never understand why so many people flock to Los Angeles just to turn crispy in the midst of ninety and hundred degree weather. Then again, most actors and aren't known for their intelligence.
Thus the world tumbles slowly about its axis, and time goes on. Yay.
Oh: I decided yesterday that there really isn't any reason that the universe hasn't been more-or-less-happily existing forever; it's always possible that, for certain systems, the Western ideas of 'beginning' and 'end' simply don't apply. Yet, on the other hand, the universe has (supposedly!) been shown to be continually expanding, implying that, sometime long ago, all known matter was compressed into a point of infinite density- like a black hole. But when a thing (aka the cosmos in this case) becomes too large, it collapses upon itself to form yet another black hole. We puny creatures may be caught in a never-ending cycle, a Moebius loop of epic proportions, where there could have been a beginning to the chain- or not. I've just come to accept that both are equally possible. Of course, I'll never know what the hell actually happened, but it's still fun to think about.
Another thing I've decided is that my life is ridiculously uneventful, especially after reading too much Burroughs (William S.) [Naked Lunch], Chuck Palahnuik [Fight Club], and Robert Anton Wilson [The Illuminatus! Trilogy]. I highly recommend them...they've been key to my development as a thinker, though more than a little twisted. Fuck, all of them are outright deformed. But, right now at least, Burroughs and Wilson in particular have birthed a craving for sex, drugs, and action, in no particular order. (Actually, scratch the sex since I'm asexual and hormone-less.) I want to blur reality with acid; forget this constant depression with heroin; fight the man and win.
But I won't. For one, I wouldn't be doing it for the right reasons, and two, I'm a bit of a coward. I'd shoot up for the sake of the track marks left upon my arm, for the attention and coolness bestowed upon me. I'd suck on sugar cubes just to exaggerate my experience for my gaping audiences. I'd swagger about and show off my bruises so that someone will notice. So that I would be different. It's hard to do something when you know, and despise, exactly why you're doing it. 'Cause I'm terrified of being lost in the crowd- which makes me just like everyone else.
Love,
C.