A boy wears his heart on his sleeve...
Monday, 12. February 2007, 20:04:48
I, like Montaigne, believe that we as humans ARE not, but "are" the sum of our inconsistancies, or rather the changing passage which we call "life."
This last month has been incredibly formative for my "life." I have had friends have become enemies and only to return to be even more beloved. Then a less platonic form or love has been twice proposed to me. I rejected one and now lay teetering on the edge falling into either bliss or torture. Retreating back into my past state is no longer an option. To hide in the emotional immaturity is not possible. I weave between peaks and crests, tears and joy, love for today and love for yesterday.
I am afraid of tomorrow, but like Montaigne's view of a linear trajectory of "life," I too would like to return to the beautiful happenings of yesterdays and yesteryears. To emphasize those beautiful moments, to amplify them and have them radiate with you through the trajectory would be a triumph of the greatest calibre, for that is an art without measure or calculation.
You want to know more? Uh... I totally got drunk on vodka with my friends in Princeton. I couldn't even walk for an hour. I'm such a fuck up. I won't be doing that again any time so. Friends, friends, friends... let's fucking make more friends. Ugh. Ick. I wish I were a hermit.
One of my dearest friends has been diagnosed with strong form of mental illness. His young life has been condemned to mental institutions, enclosure in his house, separation from his love, and the termination of his studies in which he was excelling. I've cried repeatedly for him this past week. I miss and love Saladin. God bless him. I so understand him and hope and pray that he will be strong enough to recover.
Sexy is to be dark and depressed,
not tight, stark and repressed.
Med käraste hälsningar, KEN
This last month has been incredibly formative for my "life." I have had friends have become enemies and only to return to be even more beloved. Then a less platonic form or love has been twice proposed to me. I rejected one and now lay teetering on the edge falling into either bliss or torture. Retreating back into my past state is no longer an option. To hide in the emotional immaturity is not possible. I weave between peaks and crests, tears and joy, love for today and love for yesterday.
I am afraid of tomorrow, but like Montaigne's view of a linear trajectory of "life," I too would like to return to the beautiful happenings of yesterdays and yesteryears. To emphasize those beautiful moments, to amplify them and have them radiate with you through the trajectory would be a triumph of the greatest calibre, for that is an art without measure or calculation.
You want to know more? Uh... I totally got drunk on vodka with my friends in Princeton. I couldn't even walk for an hour. I'm such a fuck up. I won't be doing that again any time so. Friends, friends, friends... let's fucking make more friends. Ugh. Ick. I wish I were a hermit.
One of my dearest friends has been diagnosed with strong form of mental illness. His young life has been condemned to mental institutions, enclosure in his house, separation from his love, and the termination of his studies in which he was excelling. I've cried repeatedly for him this past week. I miss and love Saladin. God bless him. I so understand him and hope and pray that he will be strong enough to recover.
Sexy is to be dark and depressed,
not tight, stark and repressed.
Med käraste hälsningar, KEN
WIDGETIZE