Journal

May 5

I feel as if I'm no longer living my own life. It's a cliché sentiment, maybe. And it may not be completely true. In the day, when I'm living at the speed of light I'm simply me �" or, perhaps, I don't have time to realize that I'm not. But it's at night, when the minutes creep by like a swamp, that I simply sit inside my body, like a tiny man inside of a churning metal colossus. I think through what I'm doing, but what I do isn't me; it's a combination of everything I've known, hoped and imagined.

What brings this revelation about? Women, obviously. I was talking to someone, slowly contemplating what I was saying and likening our relationship to that of Howard Roark and Dominique Francon. Only, that's not apt at all. She doesn't love me. I simply thought I was speaking like Howard Roark. And I knew this, and I knew I should be acting like myself but I didn't care, I couldn't have stopped myself if I had wanted to, well I could but I chose not to. Sometimes the illusion of grandeur is better than the truth. But I know both the illusion and the truth, and that's certainly the worst option possible.

Sometimes, at night, I'll sit and think of how unimportant everything is. In the day, everything is bursting and alive and I'm in it. Although not all the time. It's hard to explain. Sometimes I try to think if I have a personal dogma or not. I usually think that I do not. Sometimes I believe that my dogma is having no dogma at all; my creed is the lack of a purpose; I simply go with the flow.

But that's not it at all. I simply don't care. So what do I care about? Sex, and imagining it. My hormones are red and explosive inside me and they're trying to tear away my intellect from me and it hurts �" I haven't been able to write freely for a very long time. Even now I feel like I'm holding something back. I'm not sure what. I hope I don't ever re-read this, and I hope I do and I know that I hope I do and I don't know why I typed that. This is all very embarrassing and childish. When I try to create art, I can't help but feel that it is very childish. I am a child. I don't feel like one. Is this normal, to feel like this? I feel sometimes, both in night and day but more so at night when I have time to my own thoughts in my head, like my level of intellect is far higher than other children. Is this simply my exposure to things earlier? Is it a gift, a talent? My genes? Is it that I drive myself to be more intelligent?  What do I even want, in the end?

Tomorrow I'll wake up. I'll have written all of this and it won't have mattered. I'll go back to my normal life of jokes and girls, thats all I care about really. Will I be happy? In those moments, yes. In reflection, will I have been happy? I have no idea.