|wApr 25, 2006|
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
My existential crises always seem to occur during times when it is extremely inconvenient. It tends to happen during finals, maybe. During tests, maybe. Maybe, during papers. It makes the ride interesting. It makes the grades probably Less Than They Could Be. But really, isn't everybody always Less Than They Could Be?
It's the days that pass in silence here that are the worst. Marking the points in time in which I feel like I can't share with the ~35 of you precisely how I feel because even though this is a personal journal, Things Like That aren't supposed to be written on the Internet where people know who you are because People are Watching. People get fired for writing about their feelings. They don't get hired because of it. Their friends get mad at them for writing their feelings down. Their mothers and other relatives become horrified.
And if not any of these things, then at the very least somehow confused that this person they exchange words with, exchange glances with, exchange advice with, exchange stories with, that this person they think they know houses feelings that are nothing like they're supposed to.
No one is supposed to be like this if they want to "get anywhere." People who are "honest" with their feelings really aren't, I don't think. If people were really honest about how they felt, there would be a lot more crying and a lot less laughing. A lot less sarcasm.
I know everybody feels like crap and everybody feels stress, but I always have the faint notion that I'm the only one who feels quite like this.
I really hate this blog.
'My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
'Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak.
'What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
'I never know what you are thinking. Think.'
I think we are in rats' alley
Where the dead men lost their bones.
'What is that noise?'
The wind under the door.
'What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?'
Nothing again nothing.
'You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember
Those are pearls that were his eyes.
'Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?'
O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag—
It's so elegant
'What shall I do now? What shall I do?'
'I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street
'With my hair down, so. What shall we do to-morrow?
'What shall we ever do?'
("The Waste Land" T.S. Eliot, lines 111-134)scribbled mystickeeper at 12:01 AM
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