Ozymandius
I met a traveler from an antique land,
Who said--"Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert . . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandius, King of Kings,
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away."
-Percy Bysshe Shelley
Last week I realized a lot of things. One of the things I realized is that this mixed format of poem and writing is terribly snobby. I didn't think so at first, but I realize now that I chose this format to show off. Looking at this collection of poems and words, I am ashamed at my unabashed conceit. I debated deleting the whole thing, but it is a monument to my failure as to be a humble human being, and as such, it should remain.
Despite this failing I now recognize, I will keep this format. There's a certain joy in finding a poem that can be twisted to match what I think I'm feeling at the time. At the same time, I will warn you of those who venture here, that the author of this journal knows in his heart, that this is all a bunch of crap, and that perhaps this journal is not worth reading.
Added 10/30/03: Ok, I'm not going to delete my journal. I was disillusioned about something, and it was easier to beat up myself than face what I was really unhappy about. I've dealt with the problem now, (mostly by running away from it.) I must admit that I miss having the problem, but it's a bit of a relief not to be constantly unhappy with the situation I was in.
Who said--"Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert . . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandius, King of Kings,
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away."
-Percy Bysshe Shelley
Last week I realized a lot of things. One of the things I realized is that this mixed format of poem and writing is terribly snobby. I didn't think so at first, but I realize now that I chose this format to show off. Looking at this collection of poems and words, I am ashamed at my unabashed conceit. I debated deleting the whole thing, but it is a monument to my failure as to be a humble human being, and as such, it should remain.
Despite this failing I now recognize, I will keep this format. There's a certain joy in finding a poem that can be twisted to match what I think I'm feeling at the time. At the same time, I will warn you of those who venture here, that the author of this journal knows in his heart, that this is all a bunch of crap, and that perhaps this journal is not worth reading.
Added 10/30/03: Ok, I'm not going to delete my journal. I was disillusioned about something, and it was easier to beat up myself than face what I was really unhappy about. I've dealt with the problem now, (mostly by running away from it.) I must admit that I miss having the problem, but it's a bit of a relief not to be constantly unhappy with the situation I was in.