The last five hours devoted to a website that is devoted to a book that i am devoted to.
I worry about the way I am...the way i do "things" - the things that make me fail and prosper...i worry i'm doing them wrong - that everything is the wrong way because i am not living the exact life of someone that has lived before me - someone that i have admired.
I worry about the fact that i don't have any origial ideas...that all of them are taken. That i don't possess talents and that i never will be as great...as fucking fabulous...as awe-inspiring.
Then I realize that if I were living as others have lived, and if my mind were as others' minds are, that i could never be great or origianl...i'd be none but a carbon copy.
I realize that if i had my idea now, i'd have nothing to do with it...if i had the knowledge now, the greater part of my life would be over.
I grow impatent.
I don't want to wait.
I still worry.
Selfish, narrcist girl.
Every day i read the same book. I read other people's opinons and theories on said book, and i think about the book. Every night i go to sleep in the same bed. I wake up to a new day that in some way mirrors the last. Things Change, Times Change, People Change, but patterns will always exist.
The World is a mystery.
Life is a mystery.
Death is a mystery.
Scince is a mystery.
The future is a mystery.
The past is a mystery.
Meaning is a mystery.
Existance is a mystery.
Concept is a mystery.
Happiness is a mystery.
Love is a mystery.
For all of the things we do know,
There are things we know not.
And as much as we know not, we already know...deep down.
Yet, we forgot.
Because we lied.
How stupid is that?
How silly...
How Trivial.
The world makes me laugh.
So do you.
There's an underlying meaning to all of this.
I worry about the fact that i don't have any origial ideas...that all of them are taken. That i don't possess talents and that i never will be as great...as fucking fabulous...as awe-inspiring.
Then I realize that if I were living as others have lived, and if my mind were as others' minds are, that i could never be great or origianl...i'd be none but a carbon copy.
I realize that if i had my idea now, i'd have nothing to do with it...if i had the knowledge now, the greater part of my life would be over.
I grow impatent.
I don't want to wait.
I still worry.
Selfish, narrcist girl.
Every day i read the same book. I read other people's opinons and theories on said book, and i think about the book. Every night i go to sleep in the same bed. I wake up to a new day that in some way mirrors the last. Things Change, Times Change, People Change, but patterns will always exist.
The World is a mystery.
Life is a mystery.
Death is a mystery.
Scince is a mystery.
The future is a mystery.
The past is a mystery.
Meaning is a mystery.
Existance is a mystery.
Concept is a mystery.
Happiness is a mystery.
Love is a mystery.
For all of the things we do know,
There are things we know not.
And as much as we know not, we already know...deep down.
Yet, we forgot.
Because we lied.
How stupid is that?
How silly...
How Trivial.
The world makes me laugh.
So do you.
There's an underlying meaning to all of this.