(no subject)
Right, so since I am on Ritalin and have nothing better to do than ruminate upon devastation (I realize I don't have to focus on depressing things, and can even choose not to be depressed over them, but then of course I would feel like I was gyping myself), I shall continue to do so, and in a most unrestrained, annoying verbose manner. I can't say our arguments in the past have ever led me to the point of thinking that all is lost, but this time I feel Ron and I are truly and irrevocably no more.
Unfortunately, I know I have only myself to blame for this. I set myself up for this with all the facts laid out before me, and when -- I can't pinpoint whereabouts the transformation took place -- I became disillusioned, I must have welcomed it instead of analysing the intentional oversights and "brushings-under-the-rug" that conceived this disillusionment within myself and would help it grow and develope in the future. Was it love, whose rosy lens obscured and intoxicated reality, and flooded my mind with lyrical platitudes? Or was I just being ignorant because I don't believe in myself?
I know I'm all over the place, but fuck it. I question whether it's better to "experience fully" (without reservation), or to "see things for what they are" (without bias), and despite idealism, I end up with Pascal's wager: To believe in God though he mayn't exist and hence increase your chances of salvation if it exists, or reject things that aren't practical and marginally decrease said chances, but gain a hit-or-miss at Enlightenment. Always best to keep your wits about you, but then where did the wits come from anyway and are they worth a damn, and if not what is? Age old, I know. Restating the obvious is comforting, as is making excuses to continue doing so. As long as nothing is noble.
And of course we must throw in Shakespeare's "slings and arrows of love" quotation, about how he'd rather suffer them than never experience love at all. But then we counter: is perfect love amongst humans possible, or is it just an overly-dolled-up, romanticized (like anorexia and heroin) notion that keeps us reading classic novels, and vaguely motivates us to write? I have no point, except, oh: Perhaps love is fine and dandy, but loving Ron was a grave mistake, and perhaps the universe (melodrama, self-pity) gave me something I thought I wanted so that I could realize how intensely I did not want it. And perhaps I ignorantly took something that wasn't supposed to be worth much (erm...that was supposed to be fleeting, I mean) and held onto it for dear life, and gave it false value, and thwarted the fates, and became disillusioned thence, when I failed to learn a quick lesson. I should have anticipated this and should have spared myself and I fucking did NOT.
Possibly more to come.
Unfortunately, I know I have only myself to blame for this. I set myself up for this with all the facts laid out before me, and when -- I can't pinpoint whereabouts the transformation took place -- I became disillusioned, I must have welcomed it instead of analysing the intentional oversights and "brushings-under-the-rug" that conceived this disillusionment within myself and would help it grow and develope in the future. Was it love, whose rosy lens obscured and intoxicated reality, and flooded my mind with lyrical platitudes? Or was I just being ignorant because I don't believe in myself?
I know I'm all over the place, but fuck it. I question whether it's better to "experience fully" (without reservation), or to "see things for what they are" (without bias), and despite idealism, I end up with Pascal's wager: To believe in God though he mayn't exist and hence increase your chances of salvation if it exists, or reject things that aren't practical and marginally decrease said chances, but gain a hit-or-miss at Enlightenment. Always best to keep your wits about you, but then where did the wits come from anyway and are they worth a damn, and if not what is? Age old, I know. Restating the obvious is comforting, as is making excuses to continue doing so. As long as nothing is noble.
And of course we must throw in Shakespeare's "slings and arrows of love" quotation, about how he'd rather suffer them than never experience love at all. But then we counter: is perfect love amongst humans possible, or is it just an overly-dolled-up, romanticized (like anorexia and heroin) notion that keeps us reading classic novels, and vaguely motivates us to write? I have no point, except, oh: Perhaps love is fine and dandy, but loving Ron was a grave mistake, and perhaps the universe (melodrama, self-pity) gave me something I thought I wanted so that I could realize how intensely I did not want it. And perhaps I ignorantly took something that wasn't supposed to be worth much (erm...that was supposed to be fleeting, I mean) and held onto it for dear life, and gave it false value, and thwarted the fates, and became disillusioned thence, when I failed to learn a quick lesson. I should have anticipated this and should have spared myself and I fucking did NOT.
Possibly more to come.