i guess since our temperaments are so different, with all my erratic antics and the unwelcoming world constantly assailing me (but not so much these days, but enough to make me feel shift uncomfortably), it is impossible for me to be a writer. maybe because i just got off from reading kierkegaard in the morning and the afternoon during engineering classes which i am barely getting through (a lie, of course, but just to exemplify how waning and distant my interests is at this particular moment so much i would rather disappear here right this instant), reading his description of despair of wanting to rid oneself, but cannot, unable to do so, and despairs even more, – which of course set me off in a most uncontrollable laughter. then again, as i’ve told him earlier yesterday, i never wanted to be one. given the array of interests i’ve indulged myself in for all these years, i am simply a dilettante, nothing more. a dabbler in all things. also self-indulgent and self-loathing. i might be your enigma, your personal rimbaud, your cassady, your muse, had a person or two write of me in a most ah, annoyingly exaggerated squeamishly elegant manner, but as for myself, i am nothing. i think of myself this morning as the karamazov father, who likes to talk talk talk endlessly making a display of himself, so much buffoonery, as he likes to point himself out, and secretly wishes that one of these days one of his sons is going to kill him off.
did you notice i’ve stopped using the word we to describe what really is i? this might mean a shift in terms of a sort of coming together of the self, but i’m not quite sure of this myself. maybe i’ve found my vocation? never. this morning on the way to the lecture, i’ve thought life as truly absurd, and that camus was somewhat right (although slightly wrong on the most important question in the myth of sisyphus) that we beings truly do not belong here, and that is why we are so restless. such eternal longing towards i don’t know, stillness. peace. which is why you see me going on and off into one branch of mysticism to another. but this is another long story, in which i don’t have the time to go into right now. i am temporal as ever. or, i never had anything to say to begin with.
like the short story, i shall receive your half eaten sandwich out of odd courtesy, and on the way down, out of your sight, i’ll take it out of my pocket and stand there pondering at it for five full minutes, and then discard it weeks later.
perkaraperkara 