My moral purpose of life
Some one once told me that a lack of words is simply due to your own ignorance. The English language is often described as an ugly language that makes no sense - and while that may be fine and dandy for some I still hold a certain amount of pride in my native tongue. The ability to descriptively depict the beauty one sees in something through adjectives is unrivalled by any other language. An eloquently spoken person can most definitely convince you of anything - one reason I dislike the British so much! However, Webster himself could not find enough words to describe the way I feel.
I hesitate to say I'm doing well. Wait. Strike that. I'm doing well! Yes, Doug, I have a new car. I've been dying to tell you about it but I don't know your new address so I could write you.
I've cried. Openly once or twice for him. Donovan saw once. The rest of my tears I confided with my pillow. The amount of tears I cry does not equate the amount I care.
I'm tired of writing, yet haven't begun to say what I want. I'm not better than you. I'm not worse than you. I'm not above or below you. I am, however, different than you. I function differently. I deal with shit differently. I escape differently. I cry, laugh, talk, walk, live, eat, sleep and think differently.
But I'm an ignorant person and don't have the words to explain that to you. I hate to admit this, but I refuse to not be happy. But I actually don't hate admitting that. I feel guilty admitting it. I feel guilty living my life and laughing with my friends. I've mourned before in my life - spening nights in my bed feeling sorry for myself. The only person I ever blamed was myself, though. You are the ultimate creator of your own emotions. I've found I don't like being sad. I don't like to feel sorry for myself. If kicking a nail hurts your toe, stop. But for some reason, I feel guilty for not kicking the nail - for knowing better.
But still... that's not what I wanted to say. I've already explained why I can't say what I want - however I seem to keep trying. Ultamitly I want to reach a point of understanding that doesn't require forgiveness. But I'm not a saint. I am, however, Brett Sandy.
Man - every man - is an end in himself, not the means to the ends of others. He must exist for his own sake, neither sacrificing himself to others nor sacrificing others to himself. The pursuit of his own rational self-interest and of his own happiness is the highest moral purpose of his life.
I will not apologise for my moral purpose of life.
I hesitate to say I'm doing well. Wait. Strike that. I'm doing well! Yes, Doug, I have a new car. I've been dying to tell you about it but I don't know your new address so I could write you.
I've cried. Openly once or twice for him. Donovan saw once. The rest of my tears I confided with my pillow. The amount of tears I cry does not equate the amount I care.
I'm tired of writing, yet haven't begun to say what I want. I'm not better than you. I'm not worse than you. I'm not above or below you. I am, however, different than you. I function differently. I deal with shit differently. I escape differently. I cry, laugh, talk, walk, live, eat, sleep and think differently.
But I'm an ignorant person and don't have the words to explain that to you. I hate to admit this, but I refuse to not be happy. But I actually don't hate admitting that. I feel guilty admitting it. I feel guilty living my life and laughing with my friends. I've mourned before in my life - spening nights in my bed feeling sorry for myself. The only person I ever blamed was myself, though. You are the ultimate creator of your own emotions. I've found I don't like being sad. I don't like to feel sorry for myself. If kicking a nail hurts your toe, stop. But for some reason, I feel guilty for not kicking the nail - for knowing better.
But still... that's not what I wanted to say. I've already explained why I can't say what I want - however I seem to keep trying. Ultamitly I want to reach a point of understanding that doesn't require forgiveness. But I'm not a saint. I am, however, Brett Sandy.
Man - every man - is an end in himself, not the means to the ends of others. He must exist for his own sake, neither sacrificing himself to others nor sacrificing others to himself. The pursuit of his own rational self-interest and of his own happiness is the highest moral purpose of his life.
I will not apologise for my moral purpose of life.