Not sure of the day. Think it must be 2006, based on ‘turning 24.’ But on the other hand — Maybe 2007. Which would put the day in the strange 9000s. Some strange theism in here. Not sure how I feel about that.
As usual, Buffalo Springfield.
turning twenty four x twelve times two, half a quop of centuries, starting to see the lay of the land, hazy in the distance, every time I smoke it slips away even farther, but sometimes, sometimes I think there might be more, there was once more, I was going to do something, do something great, change the world, be somebody, fix it, fix this broken world or at least come to know it and rule it and rule it by knowing it; but then again in this day and age it’s hard to tell the true from the false, everything looks like everything and the candyman streetseller can make anything seem real if it shines bright enough – and fame, some shibboleth, or writing, this curse of dead leaves, these thought-fossils, might mean as little as money, that mammmongod, which of course functions to occlude the world, occlude it like God would be occluded, if God was not simply the wrong word for the right thing. Here’s the secret identity – in the same way God does not care about you, the World does not care about you. In the same way the World cares about you, that’s how much God cares about you.
Equivocal – something inside me fears new meetings though they’ve always proved to be the best things on earth. Who said you can’t make new friends anymore? I am not yet old – and the though I have walked this world a little while now, it can still be new to me. I have not walked far.
Oh how we delude ourselves.
Didn’t I promise I would race myself to law school, that I would try to write a book, try to be a novelist, and whoever got therwe first, that person gets to be the the person I become for the rest of my life? It’s hard to wqrite wtihotu looking at the screen but it’s even harder t owrite when you’re looking at the screen, because then you can’t hear yourself, what you’re thinking, what you’re saying, what you’re typing; It’s lucky I’, such a good typer. Look at your fingers. Look at wehat you’re typing. Don’t care about tpos. Look at how fast I can type. Look at howfast I can type.
We stand at the dawn of the millennium, and I seem to believe in God. Not really, but not wholeheartedly no. Crazy. All my thoughts are on God. I feel like I’ve turned my back on Him, and the depression and sadness I feel (in addition to the depression and sadness that comes from being alone after being with someone, is the act of being in the shadow that comes from having your back towards God, facing the Abyss. God and the Abyss. Two sides of the same coin. I do believe that we are living in the wound in God’s side, that the Universe, and the Pain, is transcendant. Why are we here? Why are we able to think? But beyond that, that we’re even here. The Reifier. Clearly the imaginary is the stranger state, but Reality is quite a strange state itself.
We define Reality in terms of the Imaginary (That which would be Imaginary except that It is Also Real)
STRANGE STRANGE. I type these words, and if they are preserved correctly, they might persist after I have died and changed. I am going to die. I am going to cease to exist. I will have become something similar to IMAGINARY.
It terrifies me, but it happens in the ARENA of the Real; I therefore try not to see the ARENA too clearly, because it is an inherently dangerous ARENA.
Put yourself in someone else’s shoes. What is their story? What is their part to play? Keep it interesting. See the move before they make it.