Apparently Transparent

I want to know what makes you click. I want to know what makes you tick. If it be these poetic harmonies that I compose while I sing in the shower, so be it. Just let me know. I think I am getting better at this, this superego thing. It just is so difficult when we seem so compatible. So much the same. I guess that is what I am looking for. When people say they are looking for someone completely different than them, I think they don't know what they are saying. Maybe it's that they want to be a different person and they can't stand to change who they are. I myself am beyond this. I think that I can be who ever I want. Maybe it's because I'm young, or maybe I'm right. All this goes back to free will, but I think we all know how I feel about that. There are just too many things to take into account. And even if you said that I was wrong, I wouldn't argue. I would just want you to appeal to my reason. It is not often I can say that.

I am becoming more and more fascinated in the uncertain. Things that cannot necessarily be proven, yet can't be disproved. Things like the thought process or the way I can tell where someone will look first when they enter a room. You may say it's ambiguous. I think it's chaos.

My Id

I think I am understanding that I have less and less freewill than I originally thought. Although fascinating and not surprising, I am somewhat disturbed. But who wouldn't be thinking that they have no control. Loss of control is only nice when you can put yourself back in gear; when you can regain that which you have thrown away for just a night. Somehow I just feel wronged thinking that no matter what, my previous experiences have already set a path for me that I must hold fast to. There is no way to know if I have adhered to this predetermined destiny, but I think I have. I just really want to meet a person that tells me different. That gives me power again, because isn't that what we all seek? I am not content with myself or the life I am living. I just want something to give and for me to feel that I am on the ascend. This stagnant, stale water is almost as bad as what lies beneath it. Despite this, the more I change to what I want to be, the more I become what I don't want. Maybe it's just adjusting to this transformation, or maybe I should not be repressing this, but I am not comfortable in my own skin.

A parallel theme to this is that maybe they know how I really am. They don't know me well at all, but maybe it's like that feeling that someone else knows what you are thinking. And if that is so it must be extremely obvious that I am not my self lately. I just want an opportunity to explain myself. The force I am reckoning with will not even give me that. So these open words continue night after night and I lose sleep over this while they rest comfortably in their humble abyss.

3412 Kafka

Uncertainty is a certainty if you ask me. I hardly know where I am going, let alone where I am. Please believe me when I say this. I think that dreams are an escape from reality. For me, they are a necessity. They are a place where I can let my grasp on control slip. They are a refuge from the draining of thinking. I can believe anything there without consequences. I actually feel safe... for once. Don't get me wrong. There are some good things here and there in consciousness, but as a pessimist, I naturally look through the glass walls people put in place for me. I see all that is sad. All that is terrible in people. I am finding it harder and harder to make it though the day, and I mean who would if they found yourself in my position. I do believe I'm ill. That I'm going mad and no one even realizes it because they are too caught up in themselves. How sad is that. Now what I don't understand is am I really if I am aware of it. Do the insane know when they are beyond comprehension of the pristine world? I have always found a fascination with those who live on another level of consciousness; maybe because I too am not far from them. I guess I just have to wait for the opportunity to ask someone colloquially. I think I now know how K. feels.

Pathos

I can't figure out why I feel so much guilt. It doesn't seem beneficial to myself or the people around me. This guilt seems to ooze out of every orifice and engulf my thoughts. This brings about regret, sadness, and more guilt. Why can't I be allowed to be happy, even if it's only for a second? Now I know I often get caught-up in comparing, but am I the only one who feels this way? I mustn't be.
Now this guilt is not over ordinary things. Extraordinary guilt is all that overwhelms me because everyone who is sane would feel bad if they opened their door into another's and didn't tell them. Or if they forgot to feed their pets one night. These things are far from the truth. The ground I shuffle my feet on evokes a burden on my conscious. The little pleasure I live for day to day, things that don't affect anyone but myself are my poison.

Lie. Lie to me, if only I need to hear the answer. Strangely I don't feel the same about lies. I think they are essential to, well, everything. A lie hurts only if the truth is revealed. A rarity in my world. A lie is a way to escape, not the grasps of work, but the straight world in which everyone believes everything and everyone. Such blatant ignorance deserves only the most flagrant lies. I don't lie to hurt, but I hurt to lie. I feel this compulsion to see what I can make people believe. I know there is a word for this, but I don't consider myself one of these. I look at it like hunting; the hunt is exhilarating and pure euphoria, but once you go to claim your kill, the rush diminishes. Although my armory consists of mostly little "white lies", I don't hesitate if the occasion beckons otherwise. Lie if you have to, lie if you need to, but I can honestly say I lie because I like it.

Mountain

Why do we all focus on the top, the peak, the climax. There is so much bellow this unreachable point, no matter how you look at it. Bellow the surface or simply on the path to get up there, or to get down. I fear that this highly desireable position is full, as not two objects can take up the same space. So where does this leave us, the outcast? Among the ledges and plateaus? Do we reach the bottom in an avalanche or in a rock slide? Which is worse? Now back to those ledges. There must be people at varying degrees or levels I mean. Those closer to the top. Those on the ascend and those on the descend. Tell me who is which. Tally them and get back to me. I'm quite tired of having to differentiate between the two because I need to know those who are on the way down, either so I can save them or so I can join them and finally reach the very bottom, that which is shared with so many before me. For now I think I should try to reach the top, if only for a little while. Maybe get a little momentum going so to push me up the shear cliffs that await. I have no clue the altitude, but this doesn't matter. It's easier to breath up there anyways.

Last Call For Drinks

I am not used to being awestruck. It's funny how time can seem so slow at times and others, pass by without even warning us. I sit down for a minute and it becomes an hour. This translucent, effervescent barrier that I linger on beckons me to continue, and yet, I don't want to. Please tell me I have, and am making, the right decision. For an eternity I have peered out my window into the calm summer nights and the cold winter down pours, hopeless of all that lay before me and as I suddenly poke my head over the crest of this hill, I find myself wondering the same thing; will I become what I have feared the most? Become a wash-up, obsessive, failure of a person, of a man? Or should I pursue the same goal of one day waking up side by side with that of which I have dreamed of? I half enjoy this taste of bitterness. It makes me feel that all that I have wanted has not been put in-front of me. That I have had to work for something to call it my own, but this struggle, both internal and external do not show any signs of changing seasons. Let all of the world stand still, even if it just be for a moment, to recognize that I have tried my best. Although this alone would not satisfy my desire for the only thing I have clung onto over these long nights, the idea of the most sophomoric of interaction with that one person. And I do this for you I think, but you will never see. You will never know. So I think these things done in vain because I know that I will never be able to impress you. I cannot sway your affection. And as I drink in this sorrow until delirium, I know that I will not stop pursuing, not mulling what I have done and not done, and not stop dreaming of the day when you will give me a chance to look you clear in the eye and say what I have been wanting to say for such a long long time.

A Magnitude of Misguidance

Oh how I do adore you. How I know that this will never be and yet I don't forget. I doubt I will ever forget. Because true beauty is easily remembered like that of a song that tugs on all the right strings. If we are flawed, then flawed is what we are. How come you refuse to show yours when mine are in plain view. Is it not these little quarks that make us distinct and different than the rest? I can only think that fear is what's stopping this. Excuse my perception that anything is possible because I am wrong. No matter how positive I remain, the negativity festers in my words and in my thoughts. I know you will never read this, and for that I am sorry - nothing else, just that.