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| I haven't touched this in forever. I'm ashamed to take credit for this entire thing. I'm not going to reread all the shit I wrote here, it's just not worth it. This came, and went, and it is a snapshot of me. Like, three... four years ago? A crapload. Yeah. I might get another xanga later, I kinda miss it. But I won't post on this. This is a different person's xanga, not mine. And that's that. If I get another xanga later, I'll post the name on this page. That simple. If anyone still reads this. I don't think anyone does, in all honesty. I'm just posting this post for me, for a sense of closure. I've wanted to come back to this from time to time, but I can't, like I said, this is not me. Perhaps if I had continued to post in this, to provide some sense of continuity, but no. We're not going to skip from page ninety-eight to two hundred eighty-six. So yes. Adieu. I'm closing the door and burning this rope bridge, I can't come back. I won't. Mingtianjian. | | |
| I love the dew. I love the moisture, how it clings to the leaves, makes the green darker, the barks of the trees richer, the grass shimmer, how it makes the trails yield ever so slightly and appear darker than they are, dark like the color of the true earth.
There are those who say that God is in the minutia. On days when I climb a dew-soaked path, where the morning air still retains the chill of the night as a lover parted retains the scent of his other half, where the odd ray of sunlight ambles into a single drop of water and sets it alight like a baby star, those are the days where I feel most connected to God. Where I can inhale the most diminutive droplets of dew, the same dew that might have burst into that same embryonic sun, I feel like I can inhale Brahman in all Its glory. I feel as if the dew will burrow down through my windpipe and snake its way into my lungs, to mingle with my blood and unite me for the briefest second with the Ultimate Reality. The one little droplet inside of me, is a juncture of an infinite number of leylines that connect me to everyone and everything.
I feel what makes the dew appeal to me most is its embrace. How it embraces the pine trees and rocks of the cliff and the grass and the thornbushes with no discrimination. Perhaps, if I brave the chill of the night, and lie as still as possible beneath the old pines and the stars, will I be able to embrace the dew in my slumber and open my eyes in the morning to its sweet smile and glistening eyes?
Copyright The_Hangman, 2006 | | |
| Was my birthday yesterday. Yay for birthdays. Especially one's seventeenth one. The age of seventeen is just the bastard child of ages sixteen and eighteen that no one really gives two squirts of piss about. Yay, R movies, as if everyone who turns seventeen wasn't sneaking into them before? -rolls eyes- But regardless.
Arrr. Apparently I'm in a phase in which one becomes disillusioned and realizes the people one has chosen to associate aren't everything they seem to be. Mmm. If there's one thing that shuts up any whining I'm doing real quick, it's telling me that what I'm going through is normal. It's like 'open mouth, insert foot, yummy!'. So yeah. I have thoroughly stopped bitching about all of that. I got done with APs today. My gods, the comparative government test killed me. The multiple choice was so freaking hard, and of course, on the written part, one of the questions just had to be about Nigeria, my least favorite country of the six we've studied. I hated Nigeria, mostly because I failed the test because I didn't read the briefing paper. And now my grade's borderline, and I expect it to be even more borderline. Oh the joys. I should be doing math homework right now, but I just don't feel like it. I feel like escaping back to the wonderful wonderful book I'm reading right now, the series, I've decided (The Book of the New Sun series) is my most favorite one. Ever. Ever. I love it. It has eclipsed Tolkien's glory, and it is a welcome break from reading philosophy at the moment. I love Ralph Waldo Emerson and the Buddha to death, but I sorely needed a break. Those dealt too much with reality, reality being that which I seek so desperately to escape. Seeing as my D&D group (or what remains of it) won't be starting up till summer. Loverly.
But regardless, I remain optimistic. I write that here just to remind myself of it. I need to become more optimistic, and I kind of am, but the optimism is edged with cynicism (or is the cynicism edge with optimism?). No matter, I'm jaded once more, but only partially. The way I should be. But yes. -waves-
I love you all? (As you can see, I'm trying very hard to love the world.) | | |
| - Time to Waste AAAAAHHH! That last entry is so unbearably and disgustingly emo. It
needs to be put down. Well, I'll put it down with this insight I
gleaned from the dissolution that permeates my life.
Expectations are the seeds of disappointment.
I want to travel, to get out of here soon, ah! This place is
stagnating! (Interesting word choice. I hate this place because its
moving and changing. I'm a very static individual prone to nostalgia I
found out.)
I've been reading gnostic texts since I read about the Gospel
of Judas Iscariot in National Geographic. It's very interesting, I like
the idea of the Old Testament God as an imperfect God who was created
inadvertently by a wonderful, perfect God. And the idea we all have a
piece of that wonderful God in us is awesome. We remain divine, even
after the exile from Eden. I read a discourse by one of the old
scholars comparing the soul to a prostitute. That sounds rather absured
at first, but it was used in the context of a the soul cheating on the
true God (that Jesus was an embodiment of) with all these material
sense objects, to use a Hindu term. It was very reminiscent of Buddhism
and Hinduism, I like it a lot. It was very very neat.
Where is the line between two selfishnesses? Is selflessness to give
into another's selfishness? I'm very confused. Need to talk to
Giovanini. Hmm...
I love you all.
Post Scriptum: (Written because I had a desire to write more, when
some asks why I picked up again on this entry) I was reading my old
journal entries. I can't explain it really in words. It's like... It's
like Blake's writing. I'm now in experience, and I look back upon my
innocence with longing. I want the past back. -sighs- But I can't. I
can just hope to achieve organized innocence, in Blakian terms.
Is it a good thing in general if after facing another disappointment
I can be happy, clear-sighted, and even slightly optimistic while
simultaneously disappointed and bitter? It's weird. -shrugs- Oh well.
I haven't been able to write lately. It makes me sad. Mental
cloggage. Ah well. I'm sure something'll come. Hmm. This is a role. Two
days in one week were for a duration of time I've harbored the view
that the universe is benevolent. My god, reading Emerson is rubbing off
on me. (Hell, I already was a transcendentalist, now I'm just... even
more of one. Weird.) G'night everyone. I'm going to check this thing
more often again. | | |
| Originally was gonna post this on DA.
-sighs- Well, I've been trying to get the mental cloggage out through writing on a word document, with little to no effect. So I thought perhaps a journal entry if I just started mumbling and rant and all would do the trick. So stop reading here if you're not for teh emo.
My mind is desert in a windstorm. My attention span limits my intentions. I might be a devout Taoist for a week and a half. The next I might just be angry. I might honestly to try to change and attack a bad habit, and burn out. I might try to write a story, and maybe get five pages out of it, and then lose interest. Do I have some case of long fucking term ADD? I'm fucking sick of it. I'm done with it, but I'm not, I've tried to kill one fucking bad habit two or three times now! And I succeed until I fucking forget, or lose interest, or do whatever the fuck I do! And it's fucking hurt the person who I would never, ever, ever, ever want to hurt. And she's too stupid to give up on me. I'm halfway there. I go through the motions, I really mean it, but my actions say otherwise. My word is worth nothing. God, I hate that phrase. If there was one phrase that drove a dagger in, twisted it, and left it there that my mom ever used, it was that one. But fuck, why the hell am I even typing this? Hell, I already know the answer. I'm just another angsty son of a bitch. Another emo teen using the anonymity of the internet to vent. Except it's not too anonymous. The people who've read this far know me. Hell, I might not even post this. I don't know yet. Rationale and logic say I shouldn't, but something says I will. I dunno. I just... I wish I could follow through with one phrase. I never have. I don't think, in my entire life, I honestly ever have. If it invovles commitment that extends for more than seven days, and if I'm the only one I'm responsible to, I never do. I wish I could. I want to, I really freaking want to. But I can't. I'll just think 'oh well' after it gets too hard. Maybe it wasn't apathy at all, maybe it was just my fundamental inability to commit. I don't know. I want to go sulk off to some gutter. There's a nice one down on the corner, maybe you'll find me there. Maybe not... What the fuck is wrong with me?
I know now why I chose the name The Hangman. Because I hang myself, every time I try to start. | | |
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