time and time again
under many a different mindset
i have attempted to start a journal.
however, my inherent obsession with including the minutest detail, the urgency of feeling that each second of my day must be chronicled, comes because i don't know what is important.
so i must include everything.
this philosophy of describing my meals and the ghastly skirt of my second-to-last least favorite female teacher is an unfortunate one. i do not know how to distinguish the amusing from the meaningless, the meaningful from the idiotic. my life is a riddle, a sudoku box (devilishly difficult) that i still can't solve to a level of satisfaction.
do i have a good life? i suppose i do. i have parents, nice ones at that. a brother that is terrific in his way. do i feel joyous in my niche? in this beehive of Being? i would say that i feel unfulfilled. at times, monotonous motion dots more aptly describe day-to-day activity than a flowering descriptive passage. perhaps that is why i have trouble. i know i describe something uninteresting, that i do not care about. this feeling in the seventh (or ninth) layer of my subconscience manifests itself and sinks through the stacks of paper towels that make up my mind. maybe i need Glad. it seems to soak up inconvenient liquids rather efficiently. glad is what i must find. glad is what i wish i was.
or do i? isn't being unfeeling the best? watching the world spin round its axis in a cold, logical way, shooting radars from those eyelashes, cataloging what is perceived. i suppose it is, isn't it? being sad and depressed, and lonely, is fulfilling for an afternoon each fortnight or two. and then mixed in with glee, excitement, heart-pounding-joy that is unexplainable mixed in thrice or...frice (four-ice). i suppose that is best. i suppose that is best.
-Pamplemousse
under many a different mindset
i have attempted to start a journal.
however, my inherent obsession with including the minutest detail, the urgency of feeling that each second of my day must be chronicled, comes because i don't know what is important.
so i must include everything.
this philosophy of describing my meals and the ghastly skirt of my second-to-last least favorite female teacher is an unfortunate one. i do not know how to distinguish the amusing from the meaningless, the meaningful from the idiotic. my life is a riddle, a sudoku box (devilishly difficult) that i still can't solve to a level of satisfaction.
do i have a good life? i suppose i do. i have parents, nice ones at that. a brother that is terrific in his way. do i feel joyous in my niche? in this beehive of Being? i would say that i feel unfulfilled. at times, monotonous motion dots more aptly describe day-to-day activity than a flowering descriptive passage. perhaps that is why i have trouble. i know i describe something uninteresting, that i do not care about. this feeling in the seventh (or ninth) layer of my subconscience manifests itself and sinks through the stacks of paper towels that make up my mind. maybe i need Glad. it seems to soak up inconvenient liquids rather efficiently. glad is what i must find. glad is what i wish i was.
or do i? isn't being unfeeling the best? watching the world spin round its axis in a cold, logical way, shooting radars from those eyelashes, cataloging what is perceived. i suppose it is, isn't it? being sad and depressed, and lonely, is fulfilling for an afternoon each fortnight or two. and then mixed in with glee, excitement, heart-pounding-joy that is unexplainable mixed in thrice or...frice (four-ice). i suppose that is best. i suppose that is best.
-Pamplemousse
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