candy: Apr. 02, 2002 (9:32 pm)

so this is it. so this is me. if you had no idea before, this is me.

i understand the meaninglessness, or better yet the need to create a meaning for one's self. the need for one to have control over their own trajetory. i understand what that means about individualism. you can't come together completely blank and form an idea. you need to have an idea and then come together. if not the individual is sacrificed for empty half-believed dogma instead of a bona fide philosophy. and i've never seen struggle lead to a reward. struggles just lead to more and more pain. the idea is to change you path. or go down the same path in a different way. you can't just keep beating a dead horse.

i have ideas. sort of panexistentialism. four parts existentialism. 2 parts romanticism. 2 parts age of reason. 1 part a mixture of preconeceptions that i can not lable. no creator-judge god. people must define themselves through and active life defined by their impulse. at the same time you can't just hurt other people. you can't just be careless. and there's something between all people. 'cause we judge and we create. and maybe it's this web of connections that i would call god. present in everything, but does not exist independent of human beings. while we're all independent beings it's undeniable that my actions affect you.

i'm so sick of hearing that i should take pills, even out the chemicals.

i don't want to rely on pills, and clocks, and anyone else.

i think i hate paul. yeah, i think i hate him. because i have nothing to say, and i can't remember what we ever talked about. i can't remember what i talked about with old friends, not people i've continually talked to for the last year. i think he makes me feel worn out because i give and i try and i purge my whole soul of every sin like he's a fucking priest i suppose. and he doesn't do anything in return. he doesn't even make me smile. and i know i've thought that he's wonderful. that he made me happy. that he was so wonderfully different. and wanted to lay in a bed with me for the rest of our lives, with the vinyl checkerboarded on the wall and books everywhere. he called it heavenly. he thought sartre was a fucking candy. that room would've been a heaven in fore the same reason the other one was a hell. because that's how we made it. he thinks philosophers are a waste. like all they do is write about how they percieve the world fucntions. no he's wrong, philosophers are those who questions and come up with new answers. writers, scientists, politicians. the idea of paul is always so sweet. just when he talks it shatters. it absolutely shatters.

my fortune-cookie boy asked me how the show was. because he remembered and maybe he cared. paul doesn't want to hear about my day--about who looked at me for and how long. and some other him who i have yet to come up with a name for because i don't really like him and me discussed sartre. paul couldn't do that.

he'd talk about stuff you can buy in a drugstore.

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