(no subject)
When I see the others just yearn for a moment of brillance and a chance to plummel us into the ground, I blush. It's almost embarrassing how badly these fools want to be recognized. I understand the feeling of wanting to be recognized for something but that just won't come unless you are rooted in what you are professing. Or should I notice the effort being put in? That's where the learning experience takes place, through error. It's just so disgusting to hear her across the room discuss her realization of a certain dramatic irony or a mention of her "observation" - what is that! You carry yourself like you know what you talk about. I understand that I don't have any idea what I am reading but at least that is the color I'm wearing on my shirt. Not that ugly shade of blue or that bad haircut - he really needs to cut his hair! It's my own secret though, I want to be recognized for something and I hate when my thunder is stolen. But this, this is like the confederacy of the Old South being licked in an english 1B classroom.
There was some insight into what we discussed. We did talk about the value of suffering and how if that didn't occur, the beautiful outcome of the work he produced would never have existed. This is something everyone knows without reading this story but what the story does is heighten our awareness [man that phrase sickens me] of the impact the suffering really has on our being. It makes me want to see this recurring bad memory and these newly arrived bad dreams of something I don't even know for myself in a different way. The fact that I even open that book and think of it every time is a tragedy and it is the fall of what I really was hoping would be an escape. That escape plan will not ever be the same, and on an emotional level I will not be where I wanted to be. But maybe I can discover some good that can come from it. Sorry, the fact that I know better now doesn't suffice - I really have to create some method of dispersion of this bad experience you all know so much about and make some good come of it. I guess for Sonny, that method was the blues. But I don't have an art. Art is an easy dispersion of these bad feelings. My old method was distraction through trigonometric identities and derivatives, but that method was robbed by virtue of a robot who only functions to serve his own demons. And in the end I became afraid to experience. Experiencing in general always reminds me of it and what it could have become. Especially those things that are popular or resemble accomplishment; they fill me up with red desperation.
There was some insight into what we discussed. We did talk about the value of suffering and how if that didn't occur, the beautiful outcome of the work he produced would never have existed. This is something everyone knows without reading this story but what the story does is heighten our awareness [man that phrase sickens me] of the impact the suffering really has on our being. It makes me want to see this recurring bad memory and these newly arrived bad dreams of something I don't even know for myself in a different way. The fact that I even open that book and think of it every time is a tragedy and it is the fall of what I really was hoping would be an escape. That escape plan will not ever be the same, and on an emotional level I will not be where I wanted to be. But maybe I can discover some good that can come from it. Sorry, the fact that I know better now doesn't suffice - I really have to create some method of dispersion of this bad experience you all know so much about and make some good come of it. I guess for Sonny, that method was the blues. But I don't have an art. Art is an easy dispersion of these bad feelings. My old method was distraction through trigonometric identities and derivatives, but that method was robbed by virtue of a robot who only functions to serve his own demons. And in the end I became afraid to experience. Experiencing in general always reminds me of it and what it could have become. Especially those things that are popular or resemble accomplishment; they fill me up with red desperation.