I meticulously came to the understanding as of late, that my blog posts are very distant. Impersonal. My writing loses itself in the tangled web of characters mirrored from me ("God created mankind in his own image"...) that you can't exactly tell who is the martyr and who is the angsty young adult stressed over finals.
So I've been battling chronic self-hate and trying to comfort a hurting friend and trying to understand why the hell I've been writing so much god damn poetry in the last 3 days.
I have a lot of work to get through this week; I have two speeches (one on Wednesday and one Thursday), two tests on Friday, my AP European History exam on Thursday, a 1984 test tomorrow, and so on and so forth. It seems less daunting typing it out, fortunately.
But I am looking forward to the weekend: Arrested Development Season 4 (though I'll probably reward myself for doing good on my finals by waiting and then watching during the summer) and the prospect of Ryan staying the weekend in Indianapolis. I don't talk about Ryan very much, but he is a close friend of mine, and I love him immensely. You know when you meet another human and they seem to be in touch with Everything that you're about and you can't help but be giddy because someone for once found out your secret special skill. Ryan lives in St. Louis, which is an issue- a five hour issue- for a person sans car/license. Our relationship is mostly Skype based, which is alright, but I sort of need to touch him and it's this very odd Kafka-esque longing that I have never felt before and it's worse because the feeling is 100% mutual. I really fucking hope he'll visit.
II.
I just had a conversation with my friend Brad, who used to be into writing but then he changed his major to Computer Programming. Basically, he gave up. And there's nothing wrong with that, I just miss his ambition for the written word. There's something sexy about someone that strings sentences together as an art. I love Brad, and when he was still in school I looked up to him, because he was older and wise and had a beard.
Brad interested me as an intellectual partner; someone who wasn't as romantic as I. He was cosmological and eerie, and I was listening to George Gershwin and sighing over New York City. Which is funny, because now that I've been there, I hate it. We debated over the meaning of life and hentai, which is exactly where I want to be in my conversations.
I brought him to my school's philosophy club and after a few visits he denied philosophy as a whole, because he's a finicky smart ass.
Going to college hasn't exactly changed his arrogance. It did, however, give him an undercut.
Brad comes back to talk to me about how he's got life all figured out. Brad's a real piece of shit.
He lists the things wrong with humanity and the meaninglessness of existence and how death is better than living. Which, I of course, refute fully.
Life doesn't mean anything, and death doesn't mean anything either, and we're all entrapped in the inevitable entropy of the universe. But breathing is sure as hell a luxury.
“Dying was nothing and he had no picture of it nor fear of it in his mind. But living was a field of grain blowing in the wind on the side of a hill. Living was a hawk in the sky. Living was an earthen jar of water in the dust of the threshing with the grain flailed out and the chaff blowing. Living was a horse between your legs and a carbine under one leg and a hill and a valley and a stream with trees along it and the far side of the valley and the hills beyond.”
― Ernest Hemingway, For Whom the Bell Tolls
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