On Why My Updates Lack the Substance and Vigor of My Youth
Once upon a time, in the land of the past, I was better-behaved. In fact, I would go so far as to say that I was a mensch. Yes, it is true that many bad moments accompanied my manic highs; but more was accomplished. I was not rushed by anything. I could synthesis at my leisure, and continue to avoid issues of religion, sexual orientation, and college.
But now that I'm in college and in a serious relationship, all I really can do is find more elaborate ways to avoid myself.
All my current livejournal friends, though perhaps close friends in real life, or simply amazing people I have met via livejournal, have not been along for my two years at the helm of this narcissistic endeavour. [ I am of the firm opinion that anyone with a livejournal is a practicing narcissist, even if it is only on a subconscious level.] Since the beginning, I've made and lost friends, and none of my original friends are still with me. However, many of my close friends now either read it regularly, or have their own journal. Hell, even my sister has a journal. Subsequently, each time a new person comes on, I have changed my writing style and who I am; some do not value my infamously long entries that used to be popular and go mostly unread; others just do not read it; some read it obsessively, I'm told; hell, I even have a friend who's created a tag with for me. Madness.
Ultimately, I do not know who I am. I turn to livejournal to pretend I know who I am, rant, get attention, rant some more, and share my boring quiz results. But, at this point, after my suicide attempt, after meeting a girlfriend here and breaking up, after coming to college, after having travelled overseas, what do I write about? I'm still discontent with myself at being a failure (on the existentialist level), but I'm more stable, dull. In short, I've become a droll, middle-aged person. I've none of the vigor of my youth; only distorted memories which only serve to frustrate and as conversation between me and people I used to feel closer to. I'm too connected to the world to feel the sharp pangs of loneliness; but I'm too disconnected to be connected. Perhaps it's all by-products of the medication. I hate medication.
I suppose, the reality is, all the issues I've been lamenting here, in livejournal, since April 2003 have not gotten any better. Wow, 2003. That was an intense year, to say the least. 2004, for me, was like the era of Brezhnev. I'm truly uncertain how to look at 2005. And yet, as 2006 begins to stare me in the face, an inevitable reality for the masses, I just can't help but wonder where has time gone. What happened?
Ten years ago, I was in the third grade, enjoying every moment. American history was all the rage.
Seven years ago I was in 6th grade, and felt I was at the height of my power; by the end of that calendar year, however, I felt robbed, and as my Roman Empire had crashed, leaving me to the Middle Ages of junior high.
Six years ago, the concept of death became a cold reality for me; death was what happened to bad television shows (but they could be watched again on re-runs!). I sunk lower.
Five years ago, everything seemed to be leveled out, if only greatly inconsistent. It was the year of the grandparents.
Four years ago, my world collapsed again. My weight was shooting upward; my moods were rollercoasters. I began to grow intellectually with European History. I wanted desperate to become an academic.
Three years ago, I began the exercise revolution that would take me from a high of 290 to a low of 225. I'm a lot closer to 290, at the present. Things were looking up; Progress was as linear for me as it was for 19th century Europeans.
Two years ago, I tried to kill myself. I didn't want to be a financial burden on my family, and I was very uncertain about anything. I didn't want to leave high school, no matter how much it depressed me.
Last year, I was reeling from my adventures abroad. I had no idea what a person I was, what I'd become. For the past two years, I've led a life of relativism
This year, I don't know. The Era of Brezhnev is certainly waning; it appeared to be dead a month ago. I'm a bourgeoise intellectual. With a girlfriend, and being closely connected to my family (no longer experiencing that generic teenage angst), I don't know what to do.
t is to be done? Dalton Ames.
What is to be done?
I don't know. Dalton Ames.
I don't know.
Dalton Ames...Dalton Ames...
Before college, I was at the height of my power, now I have no idea how to measure anything. I am no longer confined to a small portion of nothing (i.e. high school); I am a member of the world, sorta. I've had a job. I vote. I drive. I'm in school. But I'm not an adult or a real person. None of us are.
There's so much to do...
The hours of the day belong to science; but the ages, and the calendar, belong to Christianity.
How can people be so sure of anything? I'm a recovering existentialist, and I've hardly read any of the literature.
I just wanted to write. To stop avoiding myself, and justify not taking a shower. I can't be honest. I have no forum; big brother IS watching us. I remember breaking down in Croatia, on a bench, and paraphrasing the emotion --and words --of Walter Matthau as Oscar Madison in the 1968 motion picture The Odd Couple. Felix, whoever you are, you can have your kitchen and ladels and meat thermometers; just leave me alone. That's why I want to be a univeristy professors: It's academics (something I'm good at, I'm told), security (once you're tenured), and you have control of the classroom. I want that control. I want to feel special. I suppose we all do.
I feel like a stranger, amidst my times. The more I read, the more I become anachronistic; obsessed with obscure facts and minute details. Enthralled with ideas that seem more fresh and inviting to me then the people I interact with. Devoted to concepts and thinkers, that are themselves irrelevant and anchronistic to our own time. I've become that minor character in Orwell's 'Coming Up For Air;' Khrushchev, Bismarck, Napoleon, Charles V, Louis XIV,Woodrwo Wilson, all characters that seem more real to me than Putin, Merkel, Chirac, Zapatero (if he's still Prime Minister), George W. Bush. But even then, I don't understand them. I'm without an identity, a backbone. Dalton Ames. Dalton Ames.
Maybe that's why I don't write long entries: they frighen even myself.
But now that I'm in college and in a serious relationship, all I really can do is find more elaborate ways to avoid myself.
All my current livejournal friends, though perhaps close friends in real life, or simply amazing people I have met via livejournal, have not been along for my two years at the helm of this narcissistic endeavour. [ I am of the firm opinion that anyone with a livejournal is a practicing narcissist, even if it is only on a subconscious level.] Since the beginning, I've made and lost friends, and none of my original friends are still with me. However, many of my close friends now either read it regularly, or have their own journal. Hell, even my sister has a journal. Subsequently, each time a new person comes on, I have changed my writing style and who I am; some do not value my infamously long entries that used to be popular and go mostly unread; others just do not read it; some read it obsessively, I'm told; hell, I even have a friend who's created a tag with for me. Madness.
Ultimately, I do not know who I am. I turn to livejournal to pretend I know who I am, rant, get attention, rant some more, and share my boring quiz results. But, at this point, after my suicide attempt, after meeting a girlfriend here and breaking up, after coming to college, after having travelled overseas, what do I write about? I'm still discontent with myself at being a failure (on the existentialist level), but I'm more stable, dull. In short, I've become a droll, middle-aged person. I've none of the vigor of my youth; only distorted memories which only serve to frustrate and as conversation between me and people I used to feel closer to. I'm too connected to the world to feel the sharp pangs of loneliness; but I'm too disconnected to be connected. Perhaps it's all by-products of the medication. I hate medication.
I suppose, the reality is, all the issues I've been lamenting here, in livejournal, since April 2003 have not gotten any better. Wow, 2003. That was an intense year, to say the least. 2004, for me, was like the era of Brezhnev. I'm truly uncertain how to look at 2005. And yet, as 2006 begins to stare me in the face, an inevitable reality for the masses, I just can't help but wonder where has time gone. What happened?
Ten years ago, I was in the third grade, enjoying every moment. American history was all the rage.
Seven years ago I was in 6th grade, and felt I was at the height of my power; by the end of that calendar year, however, I felt robbed, and as my Roman Empire had crashed, leaving me to the Middle Ages of junior high.
Six years ago, the concept of death became a cold reality for me; death was what happened to bad television shows (but they could be watched again on re-runs!). I sunk lower.
Five years ago, everything seemed to be leveled out, if only greatly inconsistent. It was the year of the grandparents.
Four years ago, my world collapsed again. My weight was shooting upward; my moods were rollercoasters. I began to grow intellectually with European History. I wanted desperate to become an academic.
Three years ago, I began the exercise revolution that would take me from a high of 290 to a low of 225. I'm a lot closer to 290, at the present. Things were looking up; Progress was as linear for me as it was for 19th century Europeans.
Two years ago, I tried to kill myself. I didn't want to be a financial burden on my family, and I was very uncertain about anything. I didn't want to leave high school, no matter how much it depressed me.
Last year, I was reeling from my adventures abroad. I had no idea what a person I was, what I'd become. For the past two years, I've led a life of relativism
This year, I don't know. The Era of Brezhnev is certainly waning; it appeared to be dead a month ago. I'm a bourgeoise intellectual. With a girlfriend, and being closely connected to my family (no longer experiencing that generic teenage angst), I don't know what to do.
t is to be done? Dalton Ames.
What is to be done?
I don't know. Dalton Ames.
I don't know.
Dalton Ames...Dalton Ames...
Before college, I was at the height of my power, now I have no idea how to measure anything. I am no longer confined to a small portion of nothing (i.e. high school); I am a member of the world, sorta. I've had a job. I vote. I drive. I'm in school. But I'm not an adult or a real person. None of us are.
There's so much to do...
The hours of the day belong to science; but the ages, and the calendar, belong to Christianity.
How can people be so sure of anything? I'm a recovering existentialist, and I've hardly read any of the literature.
I just wanted to write. To stop avoiding myself, and justify not taking a shower. I can't be honest. I have no forum; big brother IS watching us. I remember breaking down in Croatia, on a bench, and paraphrasing the emotion --and words --of Walter Matthau as Oscar Madison in the 1968 motion picture The Odd Couple. Felix, whoever you are, you can have your kitchen and ladels and meat thermometers; just leave me alone. That's why I want to be a univeristy professors: It's academics (something I'm good at, I'm told), security (once you're tenured), and you have control of the classroom. I want that control. I want to feel special. I suppose we all do.
I feel like a stranger, amidst my times. The more I read, the more I become anachronistic; obsessed with obscure facts and minute details. Enthralled with ideas that seem more fresh and inviting to me then the people I interact with. Devoted to concepts and thinkers, that are themselves irrelevant and anchronistic to our own time. I've become that minor character in Orwell's 'Coming Up For Air;' Khrushchev, Bismarck, Napoleon, Charles V, Louis XIV,Woodrwo Wilson, all characters that seem more real to me than Putin, Merkel, Chirac, Zapatero (if he's still Prime Minister), George W. Bush. But even then, I don't understand them. I'm without an identity, a backbone. Dalton Ames. Dalton Ames.
Maybe that's why I don't write long entries: they frighen even myself.