I long for musedom. It eludes me.
I live in a delusion. My friends and those who are supposed to love me have abandoned me.
Yet I move on. I strive for that essential being, that concept that determines happiness, angst, genius. Happiness is irrelevent, and incapable of deriving meaning in my life. At one point, I tried to transcend material want, but according to Schopenhauer, that erodes any potential for emotion whatsoever, and you might as well just kill yourself because if you deny all pain, then you aren't experiencing happiness or sadness, and suicide wouldn't affect you're iron emotions anyways. Which makes sense.
It is my aim to revel in misery in the hopes that from these loins of despair will spring forth a manifesto worthy of being made classic, that will relate to the other helpless sods like me, too intellectual for our own good, too feeling to survive, too realistic to love ourselves or the world.
If you understand, tell me. There are too few of us left. Art is dying, wanton materialism and excuses for happiness are pervasive.
I suspect that I am philisophically deep to the point that I am drowning in my own self-inflicted self-loathing.
I won't wax about how I am a precocious little girl who longs to return to her youth, never grow up, ad infinitum. I am a realist, and will remain so. I don't like skipping and sunny afternoons. I only miss my youth because it was a delusion, everyone subversively trying to explain how lovely the world is, how smart and pretty you are, and not expecting you to do work or produce or be anything but yourself. It's pleasant, until it ends. Then, you feel like you've been lied to, been cheated for years.
This is where I'm at. I love and hate myself, love and hate the world, love and hate existance. Enter at your own risk. . .
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