Pablo Picasso was the first artist I studied who gave me a true appreciation for Modern Art - quite fitting as its founding father - but it was not his art that captured my interest, rather a sense of shared voracity with the man. The revolutionary Spaniard loved to eat (he didn't trust anyone who lacked an appetite) and, as relentlessly evident from his art, thoroughly enjoyed all manner of licentiousness. After spending countless hours studying Picasso's various works, I realized he had corporally encapsulated my abstract understanding of art and human experience. Although in most regards I cannot compare myself to the 20th century genius of Modern Art, Picasso and I do share one common attribute: our passion for physicality.
In the wonderfully brilliant movie SLC Punk, the main character Stevo entertains the viewer with an epexegetical monologue about "The Fight" and its philosophical justification in Punk subculture. The final summation, despite Stevo's null assertion, is that pain reinforces one's sense of being alive. Growing up with a twin brother, this collective sensation of rage, adrenaline, and pain was all-too-familiar, and it gave me an understanding of certain emotions and feelings that the majority of others lack. I dare say that you have never been in a real fight and likely never will. I'm not saying that's a bad thing or attempting to make a bold claim of machismo, merely that experience has provided me with an erudite understanding that many lack. I think that much of my life hinges on this notion of intense understanding through experience.
I've been told that smoking too many clove cigarettes can result in hemoptysis, the coughing up of blood. I believe it has something to do with small particles of fiberglass contained within these flavored, carcinogenic tools of meditation. Luckily I have never discovered firsthand whether this is true, perhaps due to my historical limitation of debauched indulgence. However, lately I find myself smoking more than usual. Each clove provides me with a three-minute session of introspection and relaxation, a type of Zen meditation in which I often lose myself to the act of smoking. On the more rare occasion that I am accompanied by a fellow societal deviant, rarely is there a dull conversation; if no conversation ensues, we simply enjoy our personal meditations with one another.
I'm not advocating smoking. I've been force fed the dangers of smoking since before I could read. But I suppose it goes back to my feelings about experience and something that Joe Strummer said. Upon hearing from a friend that she was trying to quit, he encouraged her to keep smoking. He told her to imagine all the wonderful music, literature, and art that had been conceived while artists and writers smoked their cigarettes, and what it would be like if it were all gone. Would Picasso still have been the father of Modern Art had he not spent his twenties smoking in the cafés and brothels of Montmarte?
In some irrational way, I suppose by smoking I feel somewhat more connected to the many bohemian artists I so greatly admire, though perhaps it merely reminds me of good, albeit largely incoherent, nights I've spent with friends.
Whatever my original purpose was for writing this has become lost, and thus I shall leave you, the reader, unsatisfied by my lack of cogency while I go meditate.
(originally posted on http://dagdha.deviantart.com)
24 April 2008
17 April 2008
Reconstruction
Please excuse the bulk of recent posts. I've been transferring my blogs from another site to my updated blogger page.
Cheers,
T.
Cheers,
T.
La Vie Bohéme (09-04-2008)
With only eight weeks to graduation, I've begun the tedious and soul-sucking task of job hunting. I've finished my résumé and I'm stuck on the cover letter with only one more line to write. I would write something along the lines of You should hire me because I need the money and I'm fucking awesome, but the more conservative masses who lack an understanding of my sarcastic, self-righteous humor require a more delicate facade. The upcoming year before graduate school is going to be a painful intellectual void...
I must say that the last half-decade of higher education is coming to a bittersweet close, though predominantly more bitter. I look at my curriculum vitae and see the tangible accomplishments of my sleepless nights and endless cups of coffee, but it falls incredibly short representing the vitae aspect of my college career. So I learned a few languages and looked at pretty pictures? That's not really what I care about. These things define my academic interests, but they do little to elucidate me.
Recently I have greatly questioned my desire to attend graduate school. I honestly would rather move to Africa and spend my time traveling through countries like Malawi, Ethiopia and Mozambique. When I get tired of the heat, I could make my way up to Egypt, cross the Mediterranean and bum through Europe. I could visit the Parthenon, the Baths of Caracalla, and then settle down in Montmarte for a few years where I could pretend to be Picasso or Toulouse-Lautrec. This is the life I would choose if I had the courage to do so.
Some people spend their lives chasing monetary gain; others wish for a sense of accomplishment. I desire neither. The only thing I want is to be a crazy old man with elaborate stories of his youthful shenanigans. I want to look at an Impressionist painting and understand what Monet felt because I've been to the gardens at Giverny. I want to comprehend the words of Herodotus when describing the Greeks as cultural and artistic children in comparison to the Egyptians. And ultimately, I want to suffer because it is the basis of all human experience.
Perhaps I will find the courage to live the life I desire in the coming year, but more likely I will end up back in school, which is my second choice.
I must say that the last half-decade of higher education is coming to a bittersweet close, though predominantly more bitter. I look at my curriculum vitae and see the tangible accomplishments of my sleepless nights and endless cups of coffee, but it falls incredibly short representing the vitae aspect of my college career. So I learned a few languages and looked at pretty pictures? That's not really what I care about. These things define my academic interests, but they do little to elucidate me.
Recently I have greatly questioned my desire to attend graduate school. I honestly would rather move to Africa and spend my time traveling through countries like Malawi, Ethiopia and Mozambique. When I get tired of the heat, I could make my way up to Egypt, cross the Mediterranean and bum through Europe. I could visit the Parthenon, the Baths of Caracalla, and then settle down in Montmarte for a few years where I could pretend to be Picasso or Toulouse-Lautrec. This is the life I would choose if I had the courage to do so.
Some people spend their lives chasing monetary gain; others wish for a sense of accomplishment. I desire neither. The only thing I want is to be a crazy old man with elaborate stories of his youthful shenanigans. I want to look at an Impressionist painting and understand what Monet felt because I've been to the gardens at Giverny. I want to comprehend the words of Herodotus when describing the Greeks as cultural and artistic children in comparison to the Egyptians. And ultimately, I want to suffer because it is the basis of all human experience.
Perhaps I will find the courage to live the life I desire in the coming year, but more likely I will end up back in school, which is my second choice.
Hide and Seek (07-03-2008)
I counted to 11 or 12 before I realized you were gone. I was probably supposed to wait a little longer, but I've never been the patient type. Wherever you are though, you have me stumped. I have looked everywhere I can think, and yet you remain well hidden with no clues to your whereabouts. There were a few times I was sure I had found you, but it wasn't so.
You were not any of the girls I played tag with during recess and lunch.
You were not the beautiful blonde with the french braids I would dance with on rainy days.
You were not the cute soccer player from science class whom I often tried to impress.
You definitely were not the one who deceived and corrupted me, altering my world and causing the alienation of my friends and family. You could never be that cruel.
You were not the one who saved me from the one before. The one I found on a moonlit beach at the beginning of winter. The one I loved for over three years, with whom I shared all my deepest secrets, and who shattered my heart as I tore hers to pieces. The one who left me scarred and will always have a piece of my heart. No, you were not her.
You were not the perpetually drunken, meaningless rebound that followed.
You were not the amazing girl I spent so many years in class with, whom I love and admire for her innocently blunt personality. She is one of my best friends, but you are not her.
Where are you? Every time I think I've found you, some little nuance or subtle detail manifests otherwise. Perhaps I am exhausted with the tedium of searching, but I think rather it has to do with what Alex said. Amidst one of our monthly beer-soaked barbecues, we discussed the finer points of Hide-and-Seek tactics. As the coals slowed to a hypnotic dance, he elucidated the absurdities of strenuously searching and his preferred Tao-like approach. At the time I dismissed his philosophy with the curling cigar smoke filling the patio. Though, like the smell of smoke, his words have lingered with me and I have come to realize their truth.
So wherever you may be, I will find you. But until then, I will enjoy the search with my newfound patience (and perhaps a cold beer).
You were not any of the girls I played tag with during recess and lunch.
You were not the beautiful blonde with the french braids I would dance with on rainy days.
You were not the cute soccer player from science class whom I often tried to impress.
You definitely were not the one who deceived and corrupted me, altering my world and causing the alienation of my friends and family. You could never be that cruel.
You were not the one who saved me from the one before. The one I found on a moonlit beach at the beginning of winter. The one I loved for over three years, with whom I shared all my deepest secrets, and who shattered my heart as I tore hers to pieces. The one who left me scarred and will always have a piece of my heart. No, you were not her.
You were not the perpetually drunken, meaningless rebound that followed.
You were not the amazing girl I spent so many years in class with, whom I love and admire for her innocently blunt personality. She is one of my best friends, but you are not her.
Where are you? Every time I think I've found you, some little nuance or subtle detail manifests otherwise. Perhaps I am exhausted with the tedium of searching, but I think rather it has to do with what Alex said. Amidst one of our monthly beer-soaked barbecues, we discussed the finer points of Hide-and-Seek tactics. As the coals slowed to a hypnotic dance, he elucidated the absurdities of strenuously searching and his preferred Tao-like approach. At the time I dismissed his philosophy with the curling cigar smoke filling the patio. Though, like the smell of smoke, his words have lingered with me and I have come to realize their truth.
So wherever you may be, I will find you. But until then, I will enjoy the search with my newfound patience (and perhaps a cold beer).
Untitled (22-02-2008)
O mater lvminis, mea domina
mvsaque mevm cor cepisti
mevmqve animvm delenivisti.
Tva absentia tenebras est et
abvsvs svm ne infaceta hominis
verba capere essentiam tvae
formae possent, qvamvis carvs
Paris decrevit vt Venus amoenissima
esset, neqve promissvm neqve
temptatio circvmagere svvm
te aspectvm potverit, nam tva
forma perfectionem vllae dea tviqve
ocvli ignem qvis illvstrior qvam
fvrtiva miseri Promethei flamma
est. Si avferre solvm basivm
carorvm porcellanorvm avscvlorvm
possem, serenvm caeli noscerem
sicvtque stvltvs Fortunae damnatvs essem.
(I originally wrote this poem in English and then translated it into Latin, thus it is highly likely that there are numerous errors and not nearly as elegant)
mvsaque mevm cor cepisti
mevmqve animvm delenivisti.
Tva absentia tenebras est et
abvsvs svm ne infaceta hominis
verba capere essentiam tvae
formae possent, qvamvis carvs
Paris decrevit vt Venus amoenissima
esset, neqve promissvm neqve
temptatio circvmagere svvm
te aspectvm potverit, nam tva
forma perfectionem vllae dea tviqve
ocvli ignem qvis illvstrior qvam
fvrtiva miseri Promethei flamma
est. Si avferre solvm basivm
carorvm porcellanorvm avscvlorvm
possem, serenvm caeli noscerem
sicvtque stvltvs Fortunae damnatvs essem.
(I originally wrote this poem in English and then translated it into Latin, thus it is highly likely that there are numerous errors and not nearly as elegant)
Electricity and Autophobia (04-02-2008)
As per my usual caveat, I caution the reader that due to a lack of skill, style and patience, my philosophical ramblings are typically stream-of-counsciousness and of little or no value to the poor souls who masochistically read on.
You're still reading? Alright, I tried...
Once again I find myself compelled to write in the early hours of a new day rather than visiting Wonderland. Unfortunately if i do not expel my thoughts in one manner or another, I rarely sleep and the cheshire cat is left without a victim to torment. I fear I've been blessed and cursed with an over active imagination, perpetually spurred on by caffeine addiction.
January has already come and gone, a month of many beginnings and endings. I have spent a great many hours reflecting on how my life has changed in a mere twelve months. I have experienced loss as I never imagined - in many different spheres, traveled to the edge of insanity, questioned my nihilism and discovered cynicism, and in some sense found peace, but it's an eerie peace. As though birds singing in the trees after a spring shower suddenly ceased their melodic hymns, replaced by a ringing, uncomfortable silence. Try as I might, I can't seem to find the tangible cause. I suspect that it has something to do with loneliness.
As with any hypothesis, however, I cannot prove my postulation one way or another without controllable circumstances, therefore I am confined to mere conjecture. The overwhelming question preoccupying my mental faculties of late concerns the effects of physical human contact. Why is it that physical contact with others excite the senses so much? Is it the electrical circuit produced between both bodies? Or is it more metaphysical? I'm sure there are countless sources that discuss the physical and psychological effects, but I personally would argue the latter.
From my point of view, I would argue that autophobia, the fear of being alone, is the most common phobia - though I don't think phobia is quite the proper term because it suggests an irrational quality, and I would argue that it is inexplicable, not irrational. Social interaction is an innate humanistic desire, and extended periods of isolation wear down the mind and augment the soul. People do anything and everything to avoid being truly alone. Religions believe in God(s) because to them it means they are not cosmically alone. Society forms clicks for particular demographics, and it despises those it sees as outcasts, loners, and aliens. And people endure loveless relationships because it is preferable to solitude.
In my humble opinion, intimate physical interaction between two people (I'm not just talking about sex) is the antithesis of isolation, and thus the reason we find true happiness in an act as simple as a hug, which I guess brings me back to my situation.
Mentally, I do not mind solitude. I have enough trouble understanding my own thoughts, and effectively sharing them with someone else is often rather difficult for me (as evidenced by my writing - these blogs never turn out on paper as they do in my head). That is not to say I do not thoroughly enjoy good conversations, philosophical debates, and the occasional voracious diatribe.
The more I think about it, the more I come to realize that the lack of physical human contact is likely the cause of my eerie silence. For nearly five years, I was never want for such a thing, but now I have forgotten the pleasant peace that comes from snuggling with someone and waking up next to them in the morning. Wonderland is a cold and lonely place, but the warmth of a companion helps you to find your way back. Without it, you often find yourself wishing you could return to the land of talking caterpillars and an evil queen because at least then you would not be alone.
You're still reading? Alright, I tried...
Once again I find myself compelled to write in the early hours of a new day rather than visiting Wonderland. Unfortunately if i do not expel my thoughts in one manner or another, I rarely sleep and the cheshire cat is left without a victim to torment. I fear I've been blessed and cursed with an over active imagination, perpetually spurred on by caffeine addiction.
January has already come and gone, a month of many beginnings and endings. I have spent a great many hours reflecting on how my life has changed in a mere twelve months. I have experienced loss as I never imagined - in many different spheres, traveled to the edge of insanity, questioned my nihilism and discovered cynicism, and in some sense found peace, but it's an eerie peace. As though birds singing in the trees after a spring shower suddenly ceased their melodic hymns, replaced by a ringing, uncomfortable silence. Try as I might, I can't seem to find the tangible cause. I suspect that it has something to do with loneliness.
As with any hypothesis, however, I cannot prove my postulation one way or another without controllable circumstances, therefore I am confined to mere conjecture. The overwhelming question preoccupying my mental faculties of late concerns the effects of physical human contact. Why is it that physical contact with others excite the senses so much? Is it the electrical circuit produced between both bodies? Or is it more metaphysical? I'm sure there are countless sources that discuss the physical and psychological effects, but I personally would argue the latter.
From my point of view, I would argue that autophobia, the fear of being alone, is the most common phobia - though I don't think phobia is quite the proper term because it suggests an irrational quality, and I would argue that it is inexplicable, not irrational. Social interaction is an innate humanistic desire, and extended periods of isolation wear down the mind and augment the soul. People do anything and everything to avoid being truly alone. Religions believe in God(s) because to them it means they are not cosmically alone. Society forms clicks for particular demographics, and it despises those it sees as outcasts, loners, and aliens. And people endure loveless relationships because it is preferable to solitude.
In my humble opinion, intimate physical interaction between two people (I'm not just talking about sex) is the antithesis of isolation, and thus the reason we find true happiness in an act as simple as a hug, which I guess brings me back to my situation.
Mentally, I do not mind solitude. I have enough trouble understanding my own thoughts, and effectively sharing them with someone else is often rather difficult for me (as evidenced by my writing - these blogs never turn out on paper as they do in my head). That is not to say I do not thoroughly enjoy good conversations, philosophical debates, and the occasional voracious diatribe.
The more I think about it, the more I come to realize that the lack of physical human contact is likely the cause of my eerie silence. For nearly five years, I was never want for such a thing, but now I have forgotten the pleasant peace that comes from snuggling with someone and waking up next to them in the morning. Wonderland is a cold and lonely place, but the warmth of a companion helps you to find your way back. Without it, you often find yourself wishing you could return to the land of talking caterpillars and an evil queen because at least then you would not be alone.
Yarrrrr! (29-01-2008)
"We shall have a magnificent garden party, and you're not invited."*
It's one in the morning, and I'm drinking coffee. Why? Who knows? Despite the fact that I consider myself to be rather intelligent, I do stupid shit like drink coffee when I should be sleeping for no apparent reason other than the fact that I like the taste. Yes, that was a long sentence. No, it was not a run-on. I'm a little hyper. Can you tell?
Anyway, I've decided that I was definitely a pirate in some past life (or perhaps all of my past lives) - apparently I believe in reincarnation. Huh...
So yeah, if it were reasonably possible, I would definitely be a pirate in this life. Sailing around the world. Drinking copious amounts of rum. Sword fighting. Pillaging. Plundering. Pirate wenches. Devils, and black sheep, and really bad eggs. What could be better? Nothing says I.
Ooooo, and I'd have a pet monkey.
And now I leave you with a poem:
Casanova and the Jabberwocky
"Discite grammatici cur
mascula nomina cunnus
Et cur femineum mentula
nomen habet?" Queried
the loquacious deipnosophist,
glaring ominously at the
seemingly taciturn dilettante.
Unbeknownst to his majesty,
however, the amateur was,
in fact, an unconventional
philologist. In any other milieu,
the innate innocuousness
of such a conundrum would
have been comedic, but the
perfidious petulance of the
scholar vexed his prudence.
The odious, feculent master
therefore responded:
"Disce quod a domino
nomina servus habet."
(*Jack Sparrow/Johnny Depp)
It's one in the morning, and I'm drinking coffee. Why? Who knows? Despite the fact that I consider myself to be rather intelligent, I do stupid shit like drink coffee when I should be sleeping for no apparent reason other than the fact that I like the taste. Yes, that was a long sentence. No, it was not a run-on. I'm a little hyper. Can you tell?
Anyway, I've decided that I was definitely a pirate in some past life (or perhaps all of my past lives) - apparently I believe in reincarnation. Huh...
So yeah, if it were reasonably possible, I would definitely be a pirate in this life. Sailing around the world. Drinking copious amounts of rum. Sword fighting. Pillaging. Plundering. Pirate wenches. Devils, and black sheep, and really bad eggs. What could be better? Nothing says I.
Ooooo, and I'd have a pet monkey.
And now I leave you with a poem:
Casanova and the Jabberwocky
"Discite grammatici cur
mascula nomina cunnus
Et cur femineum mentula
nomen habet?" Queried
the loquacious deipnosophist,
glaring ominously at the
seemingly taciturn dilettante.
Unbeknownst to his majesty,
however, the amateur was,
in fact, an unconventional
philologist. In any other milieu,
the innate innocuousness
of such a conundrum would
have been comedic, but the
perfidious petulance of the
scholar vexed his prudence.
The odious, feculent master
therefore responded:
"Disce quod a domino
nomina servus habet."
(*Jack Sparrow/Johnny Depp)
Errare Homo Est (03-12-2007)
"Experience is the purest form of knowledge. Thus I seek to learn all things."*
Roughly a month ago I was watching a movie at an early screening with my good friend Bryan when an overwhelmingly strong thought materialized in my small, inadequate brain - it runs purely on caffeine and only recalls the most trivial minutiae at inopportune times. What occurred to me, even though it may seem rather obvious and instinctual, is that experience is the purest form of knowledge. No amount of studying, lecturing, or painful rote memorization comes close to actually experiencing something. The movie we happened to be watching stems from an utterly amazing television series that deals with human experience in quite an awesome manner (I use 'awesome' here with its original, intended definition and not the watered-down modern anachronism). I was so struck by this idea that I literally pulled out my moleskin notebook and wrote it down in the middle of the movie, and it has since provoked a rather lengthy philosophical meditation, which has proven quite effective at aiding my perpetual procrastination.
In my life, I have often learned things the hard way despite constant admonitions from various mentors, such as my parents. As an extremely cliché example, I once cracked my head open because I dove into the shallow end of a pool. Unfortunately, that was one of the least painful lessons I chose to learn the "hard way." Consequently, my belief that experience is the purest form of knowledge is reaffirmed by a plethora of autobiographical experiences. This leads me to the more philosophical aspect of this entry.
A recent paper I wrote for one of my Anthropology classes discussed the conflicting natures of science and religion. I concluded the paper by stating that the two are irreconcilable because the unification of physical and metaphysical truth would result in mankind's deification. Now assuming that God, or whatever supreme entity exists (if there is such an entity), s/he/it would presumably possess a pure knowledge of all things. Therefore by my logic, which is surely flawed, God/Flying Spaghetti Monster/Whomever has experienced all things. Now knowing what little I've learned and experienced during my infinitesimally short lifespan, I would hate to be omniscient. Perhaps it's just my pessimistic vantage point on life, but to experience all things seems rather agonizing. Regardless of all the true happiness one might experience, is it enough to overcome all the pain and suffering?
I guess after writing all of this, it seems rather pointless. The main philosophical question I'm posing is whether or not good is more powerful than bad/evil, and no question is more prevalent in any humanistic inquiry. Ergo, I apologize for anyone who has endured my inane digression.
(*a quote by the very unoriginal, non-thought-provoking writer T.J. Adams)
Roughly a month ago I was watching a movie at an early screening with my good friend Bryan when an overwhelmingly strong thought materialized in my small, inadequate brain - it runs purely on caffeine and only recalls the most trivial minutiae at inopportune times. What occurred to me, even though it may seem rather obvious and instinctual, is that experience is the purest form of knowledge. No amount of studying, lecturing, or painful rote memorization comes close to actually experiencing something. The movie we happened to be watching stems from an utterly amazing television series that deals with human experience in quite an awesome manner (I use 'awesome' here with its original, intended definition and not the watered-down modern anachronism). I was so struck by this idea that I literally pulled out my moleskin notebook and wrote it down in the middle of the movie, and it has since provoked a rather lengthy philosophical meditation, which has proven quite effective at aiding my perpetual procrastination.
In my life, I have often learned things the hard way despite constant admonitions from various mentors, such as my parents. As an extremely cliché example, I once cracked my head open because I dove into the shallow end of a pool. Unfortunately, that was one of the least painful lessons I chose to learn the "hard way." Consequently, my belief that experience is the purest form of knowledge is reaffirmed by a plethora of autobiographical experiences. This leads me to the more philosophical aspect of this entry.
A recent paper I wrote for one of my Anthropology classes discussed the conflicting natures of science and religion. I concluded the paper by stating that the two are irreconcilable because the unification of physical and metaphysical truth would result in mankind's deification. Now assuming that God, or whatever supreme entity exists (if there is such an entity), s/he/it would presumably possess a pure knowledge of all things. Therefore by my logic, which is surely flawed, God/Flying Spaghetti Monster/Whomever has experienced all things. Now knowing what little I've learned and experienced during my infinitesimally short lifespan, I would hate to be omniscient. Perhaps it's just my pessimistic vantage point on life, but to experience all things seems rather agonizing. Regardless of all the true happiness one might experience, is it enough to overcome all the pain and suffering?
I guess after writing all of this, it seems rather pointless. The main philosophical question I'm posing is whether or not good is more powerful than bad/evil, and no question is more prevalent in any humanistic inquiry. Ergo, I apologize for anyone who has endured my inane digression.
(*a quote by the very unoriginal, non-thought-provoking writer T.J. Adams)
Life and Death (18-10-2007)
"Vivere continget dolore morique."
-My realist modification of Ovid, Amores 1.3
-My realist modification of Ovid, Amores 1.3
You can't have your cake... (09-10-2007)
...and eat it too. Harsh, I know, but it's true.
Not even if it's ice cream cake. Especially if it's ice cream cake! You have to painfully watch as it slowly melts into a puddle of room-temperature dairy soup.
Not even if it's ice cream cake. Especially if it's ice cream cake! You have to painfully watch as it slowly melts into a puddle of room-temperature dairy soup.
Relapse (08-10-2007)
It's weird how something you thought you were over can come back one day, totally untriggered, and bring with it a tidal wave of melancholy. It really shouldn't bother me, but it does. Most of all, it makes me wish for times before when I was carefree, and the most important people to me would be (and are) always there. Times when movies, anime, and simple pleasures were readily available, as well as the capacity to lose oneself in them. Times before I became a cynic of romantic love. Times before her, the one who REALLY messed me up.
Now I seek solitude. I often try to find solace in the things that used to bring me so much joy, but my jaded consciousness only makes them palatably bittersweet.
EDIT: I think I've become so cynical lately that it's actually making me depressed. I think I should do something about that... maybe sacrifice a goat?
EDIT: I don't think that was a good idea... it got kind of messy and didn't really help to resolve anything...
Now I seek solitude. I often try to find solace in the things that used to bring me so much joy, but my jaded consciousness only makes them palatably bittersweet.
EDIT: I think I've become so cynical lately that it's actually making me depressed. I think I should do something about that... maybe sacrifice a goat?
EDIT: I don't think that was a good idea... it got kind of messy and didn't really help to resolve anything...
Prodigal Son (03-10-2007)
There are few things more depressing than coming to the harsh realization that your parents, the two people who have the most unconditional love for you in this wretched world, don't know who you really are, and, despite the fact that you know they will love you regardless, you keep your true self hidden because of the shame you feel for disappointing their expectations.
I wish I could sit down and tell them everything about me, but I don't think that will ever happen. I am an outsider.
I wish I could sit down and tell them everything about me, but I don't think that will ever happen. I am an outsider.
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