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5:59 p.m. - 2003-12-01 To quote of good books and literary works seems intelligent and profound... To sense other's feelings and react correctly seems sensitive and respectful... But to me nothing feels of anything... Self awareness turns to depression of one's imperfections in the eyes of everyone... Intelligence turns to madness when futility is assumed... Respect and sensitivity turn to denial and abuse... Is there really a point, is there really a purpose, is there really an anything? I would like to assure myself that depression fades as fast as the levels of glucose increase in my blood stream... Sometimes I depend on the aura of others to make my undertowings subside... Sometimes the pure luck of a chance encounter makes me forget my uncomfortableness... Other times fright crawls up the back of my neck like a fevered rodent, eager to chew at my tendrils and spine... Sometimes I have to remind myself of reality, even when it is cold and stony beneath my bare feet... There is never a medium anymore... Never a calm down time... Not for very long at least... And the sadness of others permeates my bones like the chill of a February morning, calling to my heart and icing it over with the pain of unsuccesfulness. Even as I write this the generic labels of it make me feel I have accomplished nothing by even writing it down... The only flow is in the grammer itself, which I am sure is weak and naieve...naievety without ignorance is torture in and of itself. Maeve 0 comments
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