sunday morning, praise the dawning...
I am still sad this morning. It's hard to tell, really, if the sadness is worse than yesterday or if it has been alleviated. I'm not sure.
I'm not even sure why I'm writing. I just feel this urge, this desire to feel the keyboard move. Times are strange. This week promises to be over 100 degrees everyday. I wonder how it'll affect my walking? Will I still feel the desire to walk, in the heat?
There's this intense sadness brewing. I'm not sure what it is, or where it came from. I just sort of woke up sad yesterday, and here I am, still sad. Nothing bad has happened, nothing at all. I'm just, I don't know.
I have a confession: I logged back on to facebook. I did so in order to un-tag photos of me and to change my name and to delete more friends. I wish that I could start over, but I don't know how or why. I suppose that's one of the many problems of modernity, that I've touched on ever so briefly and never so coherently: there's always that urge, that desire to build something new, something better. Where does such an impulse come from?
It's self-defeating, really. I don't recall the particular entry, but I believe it has the "existentialism" tag, where I spoke of wanting a bloody revolution. Well, the problem with that, unfortunately, is that it can (but it doesn't have to) create this infinite loop, of revolutionary overthrowing revolutionary; a despot replaced by a despot.
I feel like such a fool, caught in modern times, not really understanding them. All I really know is that I always wanted to be an intellectual, someone with supreme command of his native language. I had the realisation early on in high school that I would never be particularly adept at prose, that I would never be known for my lyricism. As I sat in Art Hartley's class, some 10 years ago, I realised that I could still use the English language --that bastard language I soon came to hate -- to make an impact, somehow, on the body of collective human knowledge. I could use my mediocre skills to write of man's eternal struggles.
I know, pretty pretentious, right? But, that tends to be how I am. I want to leave an impact, not just a carbon footprint. I suppose everyone has that desire, really. After all, how else could one explain the disturbingly large human population? Humans want to leave their mark, in whatever way possible; most of them --whether consciously or unconsciously --decide to do it by taking off their pants and spreading their seeds.
I don't know what I'm writing about. Whatever it is, I'm sure some theorist has spent their entire career toward writing similar thoughts in a more coherent, organized, fashion.
I find myself grappling with questions I had long since considered solved. In short, I am experiencing a sort of crisis of faith. After all, I had decided the English language and History would be how I would leave my mark. So, why am I training to be a high school Spanish teacher, after years of studying the Slavic peoples and the Russian language?
I must loop backward, once more. Whereas I needed to reconnect with the ghosts of the past (i.e. elementary school people), I now need to tackle my heritage, my roots. I long took for granted that I was multi-cultural. I choose to ignore half of the equation (the Mexican half, of course) because I was ashamed by it.
Things are coming together --sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly. I suppose that gives me a degree of faith, and a reason to go on living, just for today.
I'm not even sure why I'm writing. I just feel this urge, this desire to feel the keyboard move. Times are strange. This week promises to be over 100 degrees everyday. I wonder how it'll affect my walking? Will I still feel the desire to walk, in the heat?
There's this intense sadness brewing. I'm not sure what it is, or where it came from. I just sort of woke up sad yesterday, and here I am, still sad. Nothing bad has happened, nothing at all. I'm just, I don't know.
I have a confession: I logged back on to facebook. I did so in order to un-tag photos of me and to change my name and to delete more friends. I wish that I could start over, but I don't know how or why. I suppose that's one of the many problems of modernity, that I've touched on ever so briefly and never so coherently: there's always that urge, that desire to build something new, something better. Where does such an impulse come from?
It's self-defeating, really. I don't recall the particular entry, but I believe it has the "existentialism" tag, where I spoke of wanting a bloody revolution. Well, the problem with that, unfortunately, is that it can (but it doesn't have to) create this infinite loop, of revolutionary overthrowing revolutionary; a despot replaced by a despot.
I feel like such a fool, caught in modern times, not really understanding them. All I really know is that I always wanted to be an intellectual, someone with supreme command of his native language. I had the realisation early on in high school that I would never be particularly adept at prose, that I would never be known for my lyricism. As I sat in Art Hartley's class, some 10 years ago, I realised that I could still use the English language --that bastard language I soon came to hate -- to make an impact, somehow, on the body of collective human knowledge. I could use my mediocre skills to write of man's eternal struggles.
I know, pretty pretentious, right? But, that tends to be how I am. I want to leave an impact, not just a carbon footprint. I suppose everyone has that desire, really. After all, how else could one explain the disturbingly large human population? Humans want to leave their mark, in whatever way possible; most of them --whether consciously or unconsciously --decide to do it by taking off their pants and spreading their seeds.
I don't know what I'm writing about. Whatever it is, I'm sure some theorist has spent their entire career toward writing similar thoughts in a more coherent, organized, fashion.
I find myself grappling with questions I had long since considered solved. In short, I am experiencing a sort of crisis of faith. After all, I had decided the English language and History would be how I would leave my mark. So, why am I training to be a high school Spanish teacher, after years of studying the Slavic peoples and the Russian language?
I must loop backward, once more. Whereas I needed to reconnect with the ghosts of the past (i.e. elementary school people), I now need to tackle my heritage, my roots. I long took for granted that I was multi-cultural. I choose to ignore half of the equation (the Mexican half, of course) because I was ashamed by it.
Things are coming together --sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly. I suppose that gives me a degree of faith, and a reason to go on living, just for today.