My Clubhouse
This is a friends-only LiveJournal. I have spent nearly four years now writing in this journal and it has evolved from petty bitching and whining into an introspective confessional into a writing foil. I use it to analyze various idiosynchratic habits, writing styles and in an effort to understand small symantec symmetries. The idea of truth versus hyperbole versus exaggeration versus deception. This is a simple measurement of degrees, something I take a great deal of interest in.
If you wish to read, simply ask. My life is an open book, but it does require an index. Up until very recently, this was an open journal because I barely cared who read. But because I now use it as a writing foil, it can easily be taken far, far out of context by someone who simply reads a handful (or even a few dozen) entries. This is a book of my life, it is a book of my trials and failures and it is a record of my thoughts. I do not consider myself a terribly deep person, nor a sensitive one. Simply a thoughtful one.
The mind is a complex construct and one does not boast of understanding without at least consulting the manual. When the manual is written in forty-six languages with no glossary, demarcation or transition, you do not simply try to poke around and find the answer. Especially when the answer is irrelevant to the study of the thing. The answer is an end and life is the means. I am a student of the means, not the end. And I do not deal well with those obsessed with the end. Because life, like all things should not be a study of its end, only the journey to it.
"Let me wathc by the fire
And remember my days
and it may be a trick
Of the fire light
But the flickering pages
That trouble my sight is
A book I'm afraid to write
It's the book of my days
It's the book of my life
And it's cut like a fruit
On the blade of a knife
And it's all there to see
As each section reveals,
There's some sorrow in every life
If it reads like a puzzle,
A wandering maze that I
Won't understand 'til
The end of my days
I'm still forced to remember,
Remember the words of my life
There are promises broken
And promises kept,
Angry words that were spoken
When I should have wept
There's a chapter of secrets
And words to confess
If I lose everything
That I possess
There's a chapter on loss
And a ghost who won't die
There's a chapter on love
Where the ink's never dry
There are sentences served
In a prison I built out of lies
Though the pages have numbers,
I can't see where they lead
For the end is a mystery
No one can read..
In the book of my life.
There's a chapter on fathers,
There's a chapter on sons
There are pages of conflict
That nobody won
And battles you lost
And your bitter defeat,
There's a page where
We fail to meet
There are tales of good fortune
That couldn't be planned
There's a chapter on God
That I don't understand
There's a promise of heaven
And hell, but I'm damned if I see
Though the pages have numbers,
I can't see where they lead
For the end is a mystery
That no one can read..
In the book of my life.
Now the daylight's returning
And if one sentence is true
All these are burning
And all that's left is.. you.
Though the pages are numbered,
I can't see where they lead
For the end is a mystery
That no one can read..
In the book of my life.
If you wish to read, simply ask. My life is an open book, but it does require an index. Up until very recently, this was an open journal because I barely cared who read. But because I now use it as a writing foil, it can easily be taken far, far out of context by someone who simply reads a handful (or even a few dozen) entries. This is a book of my life, it is a book of my trials and failures and it is a record of my thoughts. I do not consider myself a terribly deep person, nor a sensitive one. Simply a thoughtful one.
The mind is a complex construct and one does not boast of understanding without at least consulting the manual. When the manual is written in forty-six languages with no glossary, demarcation or transition, you do not simply try to poke around and find the answer. Especially when the answer is irrelevant to the study of the thing. The answer is an end and life is the means. I am a student of the means, not the end. And I do not deal well with those obsessed with the end. Because life, like all things should not be a study of its end, only the journey to it.
"Let me wathc by the fire
And remember my days
and it may be a trick
Of the fire light
But the flickering pages
That trouble my sight is
A book I'm afraid to write
It's the book of my days
It's the book of my life
And it's cut like a fruit
On the blade of a knife
And it's all there to see
As each section reveals,
There's some sorrow in every life
If it reads like a puzzle,
A wandering maze that I
Won't understand 'til
The end of my days
I'm still forced to remember,
Remember the words of my life
There are promises broken
And promises kept,
Angry words that were spoken
When I should have wept
There's a chapter of secrets
And words to confess
If I lose everything
That I possess
There's a chapter on loss
And a ghost who won't die
There's a chapter on love
Where the ink's never dry
There are sentences served
In a prison I built out of lies
Though the pages have numbers,
I can't see where they lead
For the end is a mystery
No one can read..
In the book of my life.
There's a chapter on fathers,
There's a chapter on sons
There are pages of conflict
That nobody won
And battles you lost
And your bitter defeat,
There's a page where
We fail to meet
There are tales of good fortune
That couldn't be planned
There's a chapter on God
That I don't understand
There's a promise of heaven
And hell, but I'm damned if I see
Though the pages have numbers,
I can't see where they lead
For the end is a mystery
That no one can read..
In the book of my life.
Now the daylight's returning
And if one sentence is true
All these are burning
And all that's left is.. you.
Though the pages are numbered,
I can't see where they lead
For the end is a mystery
That no one can read..
In the book of my life.