a bit of toast my friend...

After everything had happened, i craved calm and predictability above all. The course of my life had crushed the bones of my childhood dreams, and my anguish had slowly smoldered out, from one end of my life to the other. I emerged from my sickness a empty shell, left with nothing but bitterness and a great shame, like sand crunching in your teeth. So a life in keeping with all the social conventions suited me fine: a comfortable straitjacket, even if I often contemplate it with irony, and occasionally with contempt. At this rate, I hope to someday reach Jerome Nadal's state of grace, and to strive for nothing except to strive for nothing. Now I'm becoming bookish; another one of my failings. Alas for saintliness, I am not yet fully free of desire. I love one and one alone, with all my heart. Although i rarely feel she thinks the same. I have to teach myself not to read too much into everything. It comes from too long having to read so much into hardly anything at all. Maybe that's why I'm so in love with this women is because i can't figure her out like all the slews around here. Hmmm interesting. But all that has lost much of its interest for me. They no longer take my breath away. For my love has spoiled me, as sappy as is sounds, if you don't like it don't read it. These things aren't for your benefit they are for mine. Its like after a long illness, when food has lost all taste; what then does it matter if you eat chicken or beef? You have to feed yourself, that's all. To tell the truth, there isn't much that has kept an interest for me since she left. Its sad I know but I have never garnished that much respect so I'm not going out on a limb. Anyway maybe its literature, possibly, but even then, I'm not sure if that's not just out of habit. Maybe that's why i am writing these god awful things (because I'm sure i will be the only one reading them and enjoying them, in fact i will bet money on it):to get my blood flowing, to see if I can still feel anything, if I can still suffer a little. A curious exercise indeed...

Not to have been born is best..."Sophocles"