I wrote in my journal yesterday, and reading it today I sound like a mega fag. I cannot write anything of substantial meaning, the most success I will ever has an author (literally my only dream and cope) is writing soulless YA fiction, probably. I have used OCR to extract the text so you can see what I mean (pasted below):
Questions must be asked even if they are unanswerable; this is the condition of perception. So here an effort will be made to address those concerns of mine pertaining to myself and related endeavors. The first assertion is that knowledge, like fiction, comes in tiers and it is true that some are organic and flowing while others are desiccated and formulaic. Some endeavors do not deserve the endless consumption often engendered in the seeker, for the fruits barely satisfy and only linger on the tongue as vaguely defined craving for yet more. This is true of lesser art, which is merely a mass-produced frame of sentiment and mechanized manipulation of the surface passions. This is true of those baseless pursuits of understanding, searching the tunnel without termination from which one continues without the slightest feeling of difference, guided not by navigation and discernment but a ceaseless trace of immersion not unlike those cravings. Both are characterized by a lethargic, dragging inertia: a gravity which moves boulders to rocks, to pebbles, then sediment and white sands. Frustration spreads from the chest, shooting upwards; yet it is difficult or outright impossible to cease. It is also aptly describable as a fever of sorts, one that induces a gluttonous volition in a person. I often feel as if I am navigating a series of labyrinths, one embedded within the other, and I cannot grasp the direction, if there is one, that I move in. My mind is often engaged with constant fragments of fantasy, yet even so reality often seeps through and reveals with ever-increasing clarity what it is I am hiding, constantly running away from. I constantly find that I change myself into wilting ruin and begrudgingly pull myself by, time-and-time again as if playing some game of repeated alternation. The truth of the matter is always clear to me such that I can repeat it in full and prescribe it, embodied and conducted in accordance to its principles, all while hypocritically indulging in its antithesis to my own detriment. A person more often than not knows the solution to his troubles, yet is unwilling to pay the price to actualize it. It is almost assuming that one would thoroughly suffer by one’s own inertia, inactivity and self-deceit yet refuse to commit oneself to action all the same. Like all other fools, I depend on some kind of unseen grace to deliver me, not wishing to acknowledge that grace is only bestowed upon those that act in its affinity and bring it to full bloom through their embodied attention to truth. A person is but merely a cradle of illusion and fleeting appearances, like the cast of shadow-puppets against a white curtain. Yet the theater of absences it evokes—feeling, perception and something that the sum of experience considers real—and for that reason cannot be ignored and considered an empty manifestation of nihil. What matters is not the form, recognized process, rule name or principle but the nature of the relationship to itself, the rest of that which is with and without. Similarly a person is never adequately described by his character-traits but instead the thousand-armed dance by which he is conquering and conquered. This is what is shrouded in mystery, for what words can describe that which works between one thought and the next, one heartbeat after the other.
Questions must be asked even if they are unanswerable; this is the condition of perception. So here an effort will be made to address those concerns of mine pertaining to myself and related endeavors. The first assertion is that knowledge, like fiction, comes in tiers and it is true that some are organic and flowing while others are desiccated and formulaic. Some endeavors do not deserve the endless consumption often engendered in the seeker, for the fruits barely satisfy and only linger on the tongue as vaguely defined craving for yet more. This is true of lesser art, which is merely a mass-produced frame of sentiment and mechanized manipulation of the surface passions. This is true of those baseless pursuits of understanding, searching the tunnel without termination from which one continues without the slightest feeling of difference, guided not by navigation and discernment but a ceaseless trace of immersion not unlike those cravings. Both are characterized by a lethargic, dragging inertia: a gravity which moves boulders to rocks, to pebbles, then sediment and white sands. Frustration spreads from the chest, shooting upwards; yet it is difficult or outright impossible to cease. It is also aptly describable as a fever of sorts, one that induces a gluttonous volition in a person. I often feel as if I am navigating a series of labyrinths, one embedded within the other, and I cannot grasp the direction, if there is one, that I move in. My mind is often engaged with constant fragments of fantasy, yet even so reality often seeps through and reveals with ever-increasing clarity what it is I am hiding, constantly running away from. I constantly find that I change myself into wilting ruin and begrudgingly pull myself by, time-and-time again as if playing some game of repeated alternation. The truth of the matter is always clear to me such that I can repeat it in full and prescribe it, embodied and conducted in accordance to its principles, all while hypocritically indulging in its antithesis to my own detriment. A person more often than not knows the solution to his troubles, yet is unwilling to pay the price to actualize it. It is almost assuming that one would thoroughly suffer by one’s own inertia, inactivity and self-deceit yet refuse to commit oneself to action all the same. Like all other fools, I depend on some kind of unseen grace to deliver me, not wishing to acknowledge that grace is only bestowed upon those that act in its affinity and bring it to full bloom through their embodied attention to truth. A person is but merely a cradle of illusion and fleeting appearances, like the cast of shadow-puppets against a white curtain. Yet the theater of absences it evokes—feeling, perception and something that the sum of experience considers real—and for that reason cannot be ignored and considered an empty manifestation of nihil. What matters is not the form, recognized process, rule name or principle but the nature of the relationship to itself, the rest of that which is with and without. Similarly a person is never adequately described by his character-traits but instead the thousand-armed dance by which he is conquering and conquered. This is what is shrouded in mystery, for what words can describe that which works between one thought and the next, one heartbeat after the other.
