i'm being raped of good ideas, blindsided by bad fortune. car dead. computer crashes. five thousand music files in a vortex of oops! so sorry! and every state line my lover crosses reminds me punchingly of the time difference... the more thought i give to my true desires of life, the more I realize that what is truly desired, is a divorce from the desire itself. And, as I have asked to be placed in the perfect, uncompromising will of the Gods, this novel idea is being heavily reinforced. This lifetime, though mosquito-bite brief, has afforded a mountain lion's share of indellible fuck ups; a miscarriage of sorrow. And I am slowly finding out that all the affluence in the world - the short times I have possessed it, and the long, sleepless nights I have spent pursuing it - these things will not make me happy. Every desire I have is a conditioned stasis breathed down from a generation of over-achievers. I don't care about real estate. I hate clothes and cars and money. I've already had one heart attack. All this is a poison stirring the marrow in my bones to fish food. I've never been like the rest. I burn incense and, afterwards, swallow the ashes. I sit in the backyard making arrows from saw palmetto branches, throat singing like a Suomi woman, scaring the little girls next door... I'm so different from them, but I'm such a teachable subject. Mmmhm, oh yes. I have a corrective and contrite spirit and can assimilate knowledge and apply it quickly. Oh yes, I have learned their teachings well, and I am stuck in their ways. Get me out. All I want, is to sit in a corner all day, reading and meditating. Fresh paper to write on. And walk in the mountains for days on end. And make sweat-drenched love to a wolf. Well, something like that.
but I have to be 23, with a college degree, and have a savings account with a six month reserve, drive an Infiniti, and have at least mid- to upper-level employment.
if you have to apologize to everyone you get close to, for a nature made second to you, which you still see as something unsure and unnatural and warranting apologies, then that nature isn't genuine, and you aren't living in accordance with the true nature within, and you're just a brainwave rendering on a neurological printout of a paradigm of short lives and trap doors.
or maybe I should just stop reading Sylvia Plath, because every time I indulge her, terrible things happen... I'm so open to everything. I realize now that the planetary alignment is like a happy family of hunting knives, hidden in the cookies.