I've stopped dating my entries; I wonder if my life is interesting enough to publish.
I think my problem is that I feel crazy so when I do things that I assume are crazy it makes me hypersensitive to the fact that I'm being crazy - this in turn makes me out to be more crazy than I am. I feel as though my stress level should be remarkably decreased due to the fact that I am no longer required to think for the next month. I think I am ultra stressed out because I failed English, because my loan has not been filed, because I spent more money than I should have, because he makes me nervous, because I can't regulate my emotions, because my head has been hurting and my eyes have been burning again. I think the book I just finished may have been onto something, maybe I can not think unless I am writing. Writing is like working out a mental math problem. The more long division I do verbally the closer I get to finding the dividend of my inner termoil. Wihtout the act of writing I am coming up with answers that have no comprehension behind them. More or less I'm using a proverbial calculator finding answers to equations and not understanding how they came to be. I hate that I am forced to work out the whys of things. It makes everything that much harder. If I could just accept things as they exist I would be at least 100 times less stressed; but, at the same time my mind would probably get bored and then where would I be. Realistically, I could turn myself into a functioning vegetable, God knows it is something I dream about but at the same time I would feel as though I'd be losing an entire part of myself. I need to have the ability to work things out in order to stay sane - or rather maintain the current PH level of craziness that makes me dig myself so much.
I think I am starting to get unintentionally attached to Beethoven. I don't know what my problem is. I am experiencing this odd combination of starting to do things that I enjoy but at the same time am experiencing a certain self loathing that is in a direct correlation to not wanting to be a posing intellectual type. My upbringing alone has all signs pointing to dirt roads and hunting whereas my inner being has an appreciation for fine things. I've always enjoyed having fine material objects. It is just a new sense of hate / love - re-finding or maybe inventing myself has driven me to.
For most the prospect of freshly fallen snow blanketing the quiet streets of an otherwise busy city brings some sort of peacefulness. In concept theory I should see each individual snowflake as something beautiful, charming even. However, I can not help but feel stressed out at the prospect of perhaps having to brave the elements in which I so despise in order to obtain something as simple as a cut of coffee. I feel as though I would be better suited for the life of a black bear. I've always desired to live in a cave anyway and I do not see anything unappealing in sleeping for a number of months after a giant feast. Really life would be much simpler. I would not have to constantly be thinking about the self induced need of extreme success. Hell, if I were a bear I could spend my days hunting lesser animals. Fucking with hunters and I'd probably manage to teach myself to paint. I could barter for supplies with the rabbits, because we all know they are the most crafty of the woodland critters. My paints would be beautiful rich colors from the offerings of nature and all in all I would be content. Not to mention I'd be covered in fur and would probably never be cold again. My wishful thinking is doing nothing more than making me upset to a greater extent than I previously was. I have been spending my time daydreaming about alter egos that may exist inside of me. If only I could dream in a way that would be plausible in reality. I don't see that happening anytime soon.
I think I am starting to get unintentionally attached to Beethoven. I don't know what my problem is. I am experiencing this odd combination of starting to do things that I enjoy but at the same time am experiencing a certain self loathing that is in a direct correlation to not wanting to be a posing intellectual type. My upbringing alone has all signs pointing to dirt roads and hunting whereas my inner being has an appreciation for fine things. I've always enjoyed having fine material objects. It is just a new sense of hate / love - re-finding or maybe inventing myself has driven me to.
For most the prospect of freshly fallen snow blanketing the quiet streets of an otherwise busy city brings some sort of peacefulness. In concept theory I should see each individual snowflake as something beautiful, charming even. However, I can not help but feel stressed out at the prospect of perhaps having to brave the elements in which I so despise in order to obtain something as simple as a cut of coffee. I feel as though I would be better suited for the life of a black bear. I've always desired to live in a cave anyway and I do not see anything unappealing in sleeping for a number of months after a giant feast. Really life would be much simpler. I would not have to constantly be thinking about the self induced need of extreme success. Hell, if I were a bear I could spend my days hunting lesser animals. Fucking with hunters and I'd probably manage to teach myself to paint. I could barter for supplies with the rabbits, because we all know they are the most crafty of the woodland critters. My paints would be beautiful rich colors from the offerings of nature and all in all I would be content. Not to mention I'd be covered in fur and would probably never be cold again. My wishful thinking is doing nothing more than making me upset to a greater extent than I previously was. I have been spending my time daydreaming about alter egos that may exist inside of me. If only I could dream in a way that would be plausible in reality. I don't see that happening anytime soon.