I was going to write something about my day, but it was pretty uneventful.
Basically all that is worth writing about is the fact that I read The Good Lion
by Hemmingway, (the writer, not the noder, should
he ever come to exist or have eluded my sight.) and that I hate schools and beureaucracy, and complicated french words like bureaucracy
However I will take this oppourtunity in this daylog of yesterday (at this point literally, for by the time I have time to write on
e2 now, the day has come and gone.) to comment on the parallels between real life, non real life and that which is almost real life.
Things use to be simple. Back in the day (I find it ironic that I use this phrase when referring to as short a time as a year ago), everyone
was a lot more laid back. Everyone was calm. e2 cast a sense of tranquility
over you. Even with the ocassional shitstorm
reared its ugly head, just about everything always seemed to fall back into place and a normal state of affairs prevailed. We were creating
content, even if it was more often than not crap, but it was important crap. Crap that intrested us. It was crap, but it was good
Sure, some people like Jet-Poop whined about it in nodes like You are not the literary genius you think you are
, but just because something bores
the shit out of me doesn't mean it's not intresting and important to you or someone
else. It's the obvious answer to the question "who cares?"
"Duh, me. I wouldn't be talking to you about it otherwise, fool. Just
kidding, honestly, I like boring myself out of my skull."
It is of course hard to find tranquility within that which revolts at your presence, but this is no diffrent from anything else.
And as time has passed I find that everything (small e) is dramatically similar to everything else.
Case in point:
You have been awarded the Immortal Gag for 15 days.
You've been borged!
The table where I sit at lunch:
"Stop talking, you're vexing me, and I bet you don't like me."
"I can tell because you're looking at me!"
#eblana on DALnet
<Seath> Shanoyu is whining about something again, just ignore him.
A computer lab at high school:
"We'll just all wait for you to quit explaining to her
(insert super complex concept such as alt+0183 in windows)",
followed by a typical school threat.
"I'm going to put (someone) on my kill list because they
asked a question about why I troll the fuck out of a mud
they play and I think we should all have a 50 message thread
talking about why this little asshole who asked a ridiculiously
simple question offended us so for a reason that is so inane and
silly that it is depressing this newsgroup even exists."
-To rudely paraphrase KaVir on r.g.m.d
I could go on, and on, and on, and on, and still on forward even more. But I will refrain from doing so in the intrests of space and time.
Regardless, the point to all of that was that nobody really seems to give a damn about anything I have to say. The usual result of my
frequent epiphany is that I don't care about people not caring about what I have to say. But it seems that through my not caring I do care,
if that makes any sense. Often times I feel like i'm in this sort of soundproof
bubble, where no sound can enter or escape. 'Friends'
you. Your questions go unanswered, even simple ones like, 'Could you direct me to the bathroom?' or 'What floor do we
need to take the elevator to?', even from people like my parents. Sometimes when I scream at them they hear me, because it jars them from their
daydreams that my apparently monotone
voice brings about.
You can generally go down one of two paths. Either you can take the advice of Ralph Waldo Emerson
in his epic writing titled self-reliance
believing that it is better to be misunderstood than to be a conformist without an individual identity, or you can wonder why god has not struck
you down for being the wretch that you feel you most assuredly are.
Both paths can lead to disaster.
One goes straight through the noisy town of Arrogance
, where every man is both a King and Subject of
all, creating obvious problems.
The other branches off the cliffs of suicide
, where poets come like undertakers, to dress and bury the dead, and pay respects to something that
can never be put back togeather.
More often than not however the middling path is taken. Somewhere between apathy
. The place where someone wanders within
himself to find some redeeming quality. Sometimes brandishing a sword and cutting out everything vile
and sometimes that which is
in the intrests of becomming less evil
, less saintly
, and more like what that traveller would call normal
. This, in and
itself, is most likely right and true within that person even if it is not a high ideal. For you must always remember that if you don't do that
which seems natural and right for you, whether that be a transformation into a hermit
, or otherwise. If you don't, you'll
become lost within yourself, unable to take the path that is your true nature. You'll never be happy like that.
I realise that I have done a great deal of talking, and what I have said may sound very disconnected, for as Jet-Poop would point out, I am not the
literary genuis I think I am, or even the literary genuis I think i'm not. But sometimes it's not as important to express what you want to express
for the pourpose of declaration, so much as it is important to express yourself for the pourposes of working towards that point where you have
expressed that which is what you must grapple with.
is not unlike explaining love
. It's not easy, and any attempt will most likely not express the feelings
of the writer or the audience about the given subject in such situations. Of course, as I have stated, expression isn't the point. Perfect
expression isn't necessary for intuitive understanding, but I digress. I apologise for this rambling mess of emotions and hope that any reader
choosing to read it decides to determine how he feels about what I have written, rather than what I have written about how I feel.
But even if you don't. It's better to be downvoted than to be completely ignored.