You are not a beautiful or unique snowflake.
These Fight Club quotes may continue for awhile, given the rekindling of my jones for both the movie and Edward Norton. I apologize for the pretentiousness in advance.
Sometimes I feel superficial whenever I write about my day, especially when nothing spectacular has occurred and I've succumbed to posting responses to things on the web. Then I remember that the earliest journals were merely records of events with insights relevant to the day's topics. Still, as a philosophy major, my musings, my inner monologue should be more... convoluted? More complex? I should be expanding on a whole system of thought instead of rehashing my petty and ephemeral emotions (then again, how else can they be expressed, and healthily?). But then I thought, "I'm an English major. I write for the poetry, the music in the words." Half of me writes to arrive at truth - my philosophy major put to practice. The other half writes to please what could be termed the aesthetic impulse - the English major unleashed. As much as I would like to come to groundbreaking thoughts in my journals, to appear supremely intelligent in the content of my speech, I can't ignore the instinct to simply string beautiful words together into resonant sentences. I've long ruled out fiction from my future, originality being overrated and beyond my grasp (in my opinion). A reprise from the rigors of serious, academic writing needs be instituted, one that exercises the same faculties - I am, after all, a writer - in a more authentic, dynamic way. This, dear reader, is the closest I will come to a mission statement.
In other news, I'm on the verge of a cold, as I always am the day before I return to campus and I have a ton of unfinished shite to conquer; I'm guessing it's the stress. While I'm looking forward to a return to productivity, I'm looking even more forward to health. You never know what you have until, eh?
Sometimes I feel superficial whenever I write about my day, especially when nothing spectacular has occurred and I've succumbed to posting responses to things on the web. Then I remember that the earliest journals were merely records of events with insights relevant to the day's topics. Still, as a philosophy major, my musings, my inner monologue should be more... convoluted? More complex? I should be expanding on a whole system of thought instead of rehashing my petty and ephemeral emotions (then again, how else can they be expressed, and healthily?). But then I thought, "I'm an English major. I write for the poetry, the music in the words." Half of me writes to arrive at truth - my philosophy major put to practice. The other half writes to please what could be termed the aesthetic impulse - the English major unleashed. As much as I would like to come to groundbreaking thoughts in my journals, to appear supremely intelligent in the content of my speech, I can't ignore the instinct to simply string beautiful words together into resonant sentences. I've long ruled out fiction from my future, originality being overrated and beyond my grasp (in my opinion). A reprise from the rigors of serious, academic writing needs be instituted, one that exercises the same faculties - I am, after all, a writer - in a more authentic, dynamic way. This, dear reader, is the closest I will come to a mission statement.
In other news, I'm on the verge of a cold, as I always am the day before I return to campus and I have a ton of unfinished shite to conquer; I'm guessing it's the stress. While I'm looking forward to a return to productivity, I'm looking even more forward to health. You never know what you have until, eh?