Friday 13th July 2001, 2:00pm
It’s Black Friday. Happy Birthday Kelly. How have you been? How’s work? Do you feel 20 years old? You don’t look it.
Time is spiralling down the sinkhole.

• Inspiration: sitting and shitting on the toilet while listening to Mayhem’s “Grand Declaration of War.”

Instead of the purescent, clear water it once was, now it’s a thick green, slime. Appearance similar to that of ullage of a water treatment plant, it is the ullage of cultural degradations.
When the slime gets too thick and blocks the sink, when we are wasted away to hollow, mindless zombies, the whole thing will erupt spewing forth decadent slime, a detonation of worldwide proportions. This will be the omen for an absolution to come, the absolution of total war.
Absolute war, blood against blood, love against love, annihilation of conscious contemplation, revelations of battle. No place is sacred. There is no sanctity. It engulfs all and drowns them in something we don’t understand but accept as normal.
Defile the earth, too late. It has already commenced. The absolution of total war. This is the ultimatum

Friday 13th July 2001, 11:00pm
David rang around 7pm informing me he was going to Zone 3 with the usual loser people he knows as well as that fat girl from his work. He plans to get really drunk before he goes with that girl and then she is gonna stay over his house after Zone 3. I can’t help but wonder whose idea it was. Is David desperate for poonani or is that chick want to find out is David is gay or not? I personally think that she thought he was gay the whole time or she wouldn’t stay the night there. Who knows though. I’m probably more than a mile wide from any truth.
In his excitable phase he also mentioned some “lady friend” he had. I laughed at that term and can’t remember the revelance of this ladyfriend. An interesting change of events, I say. He also found it irreputably interesting to tell me about some guy that was doing work experience at his work but wasn’t actually doing any work.
The reason I am writing this is because at first I felt affronted. Huh? What? I wasn’t invited to a drunken Zone 3 session? David’s got a chance at a chick? Huh? What? Then I realised that I was acting due to my preconceptions on what anyone else would. Then I realised A. I wonder why I wasn’t invited, it was probably a) a majority vote against me going with them and b) David needs a girlfriend.
It’s Friday 13th and I am aware that I should be in Spearwood getting absolutely plastered with some of the funnest people to be around I know and not sitting in my bedroom. Maybe it didn’t happen, many they didn’t want to go but I’ll take this as goodbye. Goodbye Lauren, Goodbye Kelli, I’ll miss you guys.
Time, how it goes by. Slowly. Hastily, sideways, not at all. Good times, bad times, no times.
I think I want the NO TIMES part.
No good, no bad, no anything. Nothing. I think I am going to be come a recluse/ hermit/ loner. Other people are a contingency, or at least it feels that way at the moment.
I think i’ve got cabin fever, in a new, evolved strain of the original type. I am no longer happy or sad. My involvement with other people’s lives, people that meant a lot to me, has become extremely superficial or simply absent. I feel no connection to anything. I think that maybe I am pretending to be satisfied when I’m not.
I think that everyone else is trying to get rid of me, paranoid. But the scary thing is that while I write all of this, I honest to god (err, I don’t believe in God), well Let’s just say in all honesty, I feel nothing as I write this. No sadness, anxiety, just a cold, calculated realisation of the facts. My emotions have become sterile. I laugh, or do I?
I don’t cry, haven’t in a long time. I am normal, or am I?
Is this bad? I still doubt my thoughts and feelings but I no longer get anxious or distressed or inspired, or worried. Instead of feeling sad, I will think to myself “this would be an appropriate moment for sadness,” and then continue on with whatever else there was to do.
My responses are very poignant and clinical. No room for joviality, ironic, sardonic, witty comebacks. What is becoming of me? Do I care? No, No I don’t.

Sunday 15th July 2001
Today the words that Dr Stockman spoke in The Enemy of the People are the only words that I can seek solace in. The majority is always wrong.

I suspected it a long time before but with the eviction of Sarah-Marie now I know that Australia is fucked. Sarah-Marie, the person with clearly the most virtuous and generally admirable traits was voted out today for reasons that would be fucked if I knew or understood them. Oh well, such is life.
Disappointment after disappointment.

Common consensus will never agree with me. I don’t want it to.
Spoke to Kate today at length about her birthday party. Needless to say we are both excited about it, as we talked I felt an excitement that I hadn’t felt since going out with Lauren and Kelly. Now that I think about it, it’s been a while since I’ve felt excited about anything.
TAFE starts in a week, should get an application before then. I feel nothing towards it but I know it’ll be great to do something again.
I can’t wait to do Art Theory!! That’ll be the bomb. And I should start researching the Black Plague of the Dark Ages for my Art History assignment.
Looks like I’m gonna go tomorrow after all. Cool, something to do for once.

Tuesday, 24th July 2001
Heya Me, I haven’t written in here for a while. Or anything really apart from a pretty bland story about a princess running away from her would-be assassin.
Been doing lots of reading to compensate. Lord Prestiminion, Science of Self-Discovery, other stuff on net sites, newspapers etc etc.
Went to TAFE today. It’s actually better being in a different class because I can focus better on my work. I miss my friends from my old class but I still see them at TAFE.
Also saw Rebecca today. I was like what the fuck? And then avoided her for the rest of the day. She looks exactly the same with her only difference being she is wearing all cutesy chic stuff like hello kitty and rainbow coloured mittens. Under that mien lurks something completely the opposite of her outward appearance and I care not to encounter it again.
Yeh, that was a blast from the past, seeing her. Karl was speaking to her while I was hiding from her and he looked pretty unimpressed or pissed or something. I’ll ask him tomorrow what she said to him.
Lotsa, I mean lotsa new people. Only a few familiar faces and that’s from other Cert IV Fine Art students from last semester and Diploma + Advanced Diploma students.
Wasn’t in a talkative mood today. 5-6 hours sleep made me have a short attention span and a longer response time. So I decided not to bother to all the new people, or talking at all for that matter, unless I had to.
It was a surreal, isolating experience. It felt that I was interacting in some pre-ordained plot, like a dream with lots of bizarre elemetns emanating from my mind, like a narration to the days’ events.
In Sculpture we had to make an animal-human hybrid sculpture and I chose to make a Giger influenced.
Deformed baby head on a spider’s body, which will be made from the spokes of an umbrella.
Ha ha ha, I am shit. I read a previous entry I wrote a few days after meeting Rebecca and I wrote that I was in love <3 <3 <3 (Errr) crappy hearts. These crappy hearts symbolize my stance on love with Rebecca in the past or anything for that matter.
The sad thing is that I think I meant that part about her being my other half. Yucky. She is fucked and she get fucked, fuck herself and fuck off. I don’t like her much for being so fucking snobby to all her friends and me.
I think I shall conduct a social experiment tomorrow, or whenever I see Rebecca again. What I want to do is be upfront and ask her something along the lines of “So, are you still a bitch?” but my ingrained social etiquette (Goddamn you mum!) will prevent that from happening. I think a more indirect and subtle approach is more suited. Not act, BE. Be loud, be boisterous, be happy, let her know you are a part of this place, and she isn’t. The she will either decide to speak to me or not as she will be well aware that I exist and exist comfortably in a place where I am more established and respected as a character and person.
Yeh, yeh. I’m the man with the Mastern Plan. The eccentric, the enigmatic, the undecipherable, the idiotic and irritating man with the Master Plan.
Someday, this diary will be worth millions. After I become a controversial writer/artist etc... and fake my own death.
The only difference between man and dog is that man travels on four wheels and dog travels on four feet. We are dogs.

Wednesday, 25th July 2001
Denial of Reality, Our Lives revolve around denying reality. Yeh, Yeh, Yeh. I am tired now, can’t be bothered writing at the moment. Bleh, bleh, bleh, I am tired. Yawnography!

Sunday, 29th July 2001
Tonight it rains, continuous and it is great. Have to do a portrait of a family member and write an essay on the Black Death, the Bubonic plague. Cool Stuff eh.
Yeah, haven’t been doing much. Just had my first week back at TAFE. It is good, getting friendly with all my classmates but they started it. Everyone seems to be ultra-friendly when they first start TAFE.
Our semester topic is Identity which i think is too easy for me, only because I will be incessantly pushing the statement that “I am me,” meaning that I am my own identity. My identity is me. Words can explain my identity to a certain extent but this isn’t as explanatory as the simple statement that I am me.
That is all.
Yuck my room smells like distilled water. Weird stuff.
I want to go see the Money and Japan exhibition.
I want to get the Creeps on CD.
I want to read Rebecca’s mind. I want to know if Seb was lying.
I want a cigarette.
I want to finish my sculpture.
I should see if there are any drum and bass events near my birthday.
I should clean my room.

He tucked the sterling silver rod under his armpit, refitted the fine silk gloves sent to him by his mother and ran through a mental checklist of court etiquette and the gossips and rumours circulating at the moment. A quick reassembly of his fine gold hair and enter.
The doors opened into the fine chamber where the coronation feast was being held. He quickly scanned the room, the Queen, his mother was here yet, the Chancellor was seated next to the empty throne of the soon to be King. Queen Ashnamada would retire as queen with the introduction of her son as the head of the kingdom for his wife, who was yet to be found.
His reverie was interrupted by the Chancellor rising and announcing his entrance.
“Prince Sethorn, Brother of King Kalkavade and Duke of Eshire,” announced sternly. Sethon, taken by surprise regarded the nobles and minor landowners that rose this presence with a shallow nod before he sat upon the dais, next to the Chancellor.
“Quite a good view from up her, ey Klavikor?” he nudged the Chancellor secretly in the ribs. The Chancellor smiled and whispered in turn...
“Shut up boy. This is no time for your flippancy.”
Sethorn grimaced at the word “boy.” He would have anyone else flogged for saying the same, that one word irked him so. He was twenty for God’s sake. He opened his mouth to argue that point but he was interrupted by the entrance of the Guildmasters. By God there was a lot of them and most them commoners. He didn’t recognize very many of them excep for Tatay Embarkoi, the Guildmaster of Banks.

Monday, 30th July 2001
Our roles in society has become a variable. We have no definite place anymore. How do I come to this conclusion? Take the human male as an example; Hunter, leader of the tribe, warrior, etc etc. These things are masculine.
Man no longer does these things but we are still men, just less masculine. Do we hunt? Not really, we do not do anymore of the typically male things. We are made redundant.
All that is left is a strange mix of aggression, sensitivity, pride and jealousy. These things are all repressed in society so we in turn become neurotic, bottling in our primordial lust and aggression.

He was considered by some to be a devil incarnate, leading mere men into temptation and taking their souls as payment. Sethorn laughed when he first heard this. It was no joke tough how shrewd, dispassionate and altogether greedy the small fat man was.
No sooner than he had that tought about that than Tatay glanced at him, his gold-trimmbed manacle and silver wig glinting ferociously. Sethorn was still, the glint arresting his reactions.
Tatay frowned ever so slightly at the princes dazzled blinking and went to his seat. It was well-cushioned, thankfully, his back was searing with pain this morning whenever he shifted it a certain way. A soft seat would enable him to sit without excess movement.

Tuesday, 31st July 2001
Yeah, yeah, yeah. It’s all sorted. Yeah.
Umm no, it is not all sorted, as a matter of fact it is in complete disarray.
Yeah, um you’re fucked. You made me get all unsorted, muthafucka.

That was a bizarre interlude. I have decided that if I can not move my new media class to an earlier time then I will not do it and only do it if I have to next so I can get my Cert IV officilally. Have to buy some gouache as well for my head thing, for when I’m gonna start painting it.

I am currently interested in the following things;

1. Russia, Soviet Union, Kremlin etc etc
2. Alcoholism
3. Misplacement of masculinity in the male and what is left afterwards
4. The Black Death (It’s my Art History assignment)
5. Breakdancing and Hip-Hop like MC Hammer and other old school, cheesy shit. 

That’s about it for the time being. News Today: Red Alart as a computer virus (not the conventional biological type!) spreads across the globe. Oooh how frightening. No one cares, oops, I mean I don’t care.
Nothing much happened today. Did my wokr and got a lift home from Sarah. She painted her car a purply kind of colour and it looks pretty cool. Umm what else? When I was leaving I said bye to Karl who I think replied “Keep it straight,” though I am not sure. I just walked off with a ? above my head. Saw Grae, she was wearing her usual sleek cyborgish stylized thing, she said hi and I didn’t see her again for the rest of the day which was a pity because it is always fun with her to talk to. Very interesting to say the least.
Oh and Rebeca said hi to me which surprised me, I was kinda trying to walk the other way when I saw her an then she said “Dominic!” and I stopped thinking and watched myself out of myself making regular small talk and kinda playing her up.
She would first (if I recall correctly) by mentioning she had a boyfriend, which I think is pretentious of her, then she said she was doing Art Fundamentals. Oh, you mean Cert III, what me? I’m doing Cert IV, I need it to do Fashion blah blah and this is the point where I thought ‘hey that’s the place where Sarah-Marie’s sister goes (TAFE across from mine) but stopped myself subconsciously, uh more small talk, twins, raving, blah, drugs, you look good, very stylish, my precise words, she flaunted a little, posed, ah ha how quaint.
Funnily enough I mentioned that the only techno I still listened to was Drum n Bass and she gave no reaction. Yeh well, you get that.
I gotta go to class, I’ll see you around, bye bye.
Interesting social interaction there.
Another interesting thing happened today when I realised I left my Drawing Folio in the class room. I went back in to get it, knocking beforehand incase there was a class inside, umm no one inside apart from two asians, male female wearing the pre-requisite, clean designer label clothes and probably had a pack of Malboro Lights in his pocket (Asian women don’t really smoke that I’ve noticed).
Yeah, well I got my folio which thankfully was still there and unharmed and I overheard the woman talking about her future plans confidently. The man just agreed to her aspirations.
She wanted to help children, save the trees, be rich (she back this one up with what the guy thought was a plausible excuse but which I tought was a little presumptuous), and basically do millions of other altruistic things which I can’t recall (there were too many, spoken too confidently to take in and absorb). I was going to make a comment of her being very noble or something along those lines when I remembered that social norm dictates silence around strangers. This was remembered subconsciously, it is so ingrained into me to act within these social boundaries that it happens autonomously, without contemplation or consideration, just like breathing or blinking.
I find this scary.
Pre-ordained to be socially acceptable.
Oh yeah and I renglected to mention before that I am slipping back into the routine of writing profusely. Good stuff, need a little bit more continuation/revisitation of stories already begun.

Wednesday,1st August 2001
A boring day. This semester is more vague in you understanding. What? I don’t know what that means. I make less sense these days.

As an art student, I am perpetually challenged by anything and everything. What is that? Why is it? Why should I? Why did I?

I feel so inept at the moment. My normally flowing consciousness has solidified and frozen over. Tumbleweeds roll on by. A chill wind blows across the tundra sending updrafts of snow dust into a starry, quiet midnight sky.
My pen is as heavy as lead, my thoughts as sluggish as treacle, not viscous, not fluid, but congealed and sluggish.

Thursday, 9th August 2001
It is now that I feel sane again since 2 days ago when I found out Pani Zosia died. I feel happy in a way because she has ascended from miserable humanity. Gone to a better place, even if that place is endless, dreamless sleep. I harbour no doubt that it is better than existence on this earth today.
I was shocked when I first found out. I kept on forgetting then realizing that that benevolent, wise old lady was no longer here until yesterday, when I went into some kind of torpor which culminated in a chaotic flurry of thoughts running in my head today.
I felt bad this morning, really bad. It wasn’t a case of the blues, it was a deep, dark, impenetratable (or so I thought), blackest of black, Dire, yawning, chasm of misery I had ever known.
Then my mind started spurting forth nonsensical, dark poetic thoughts, then I went to class and drew. I felt significantly better after that. Then I went into Northbridge with friends from my old TAFE class and slipped away because they pissed me off, then I listened intently to Drew’s lecture on Christianity, Italian Renaissance and Neo-Platonism and then I got extremely agitated by the end, felt like I would burst, then I went home and I laughed.
And it was all good again.
I got a C for New Media. This instigated my good mood. I found it absolutely ludicrous that I got a C in a class in which I did nothing. With this I realised life is fucked AS WELL AS ludicrous and ironic.
I’m still not happy though because I have to go to a funeral tomorrow and I despise funerals. The last one I went to was way too much grief to handle or even contemplate. I prefer to mourn my own way, not while watching what is now a dead piece of flesh descend into the earth and everyone crying. The spirit of the person is something that can not be mourned at a funeral.

Thursday, 16st August 2001
I was in an unusually good mood today and it was for no real reason. Must be a totally subconscious reason for my happiness.
I have up and down a lot lately. And a lot quieter and that is because I have so much less to say these days. It is refreshing to convert from having too much things to say but no way to say it to having nothing to say when I could be saying whatever I wanted. Oh yeah, I do get the occasional stray thought I want to voice, idea I want to explore, piece I want to make, thing I want to do but then I go... nah, why bother, what is the use of doing that?
It is quite weird because it is but is not apathy/ laziness but a realization that all is in vain.
I look around me and see
A million people or more
and how much of them know what they want? How much of them have what they want? How much of them are narcissistic, cynical, depressed, lost, joyouns, miserable?

I’m not sure who I am, or who I think I am anymore. No action of my creation has a resolute consequence. I think this is what is at the root of my current phase because with no resolution there is no conflict and without an end there can be no beginning.
I know that whatever I do does not resolve anything. Despite all my efforts, it will all amount to nil.
Why don’t my actions resolve anything?
Because there is nothing to resolve.
Look into me
and there will be void
Null, nothing
No want, no need
Whose life do I live if the life I live now is not mine?
In other words, since I want nothing, why does my body and my mind still think it does? I still do nice/mean things, I still do things in order to obtain things I want.
But now, through the mist-laden chasms of my soul I see that none of this is really me and deep, deep down while I run my normal life I know that it be for naught.
Void is me. Can’t you see.
The void me. Nothing is there, nothing at all, I try to imagine that something is there but it is a figment and dissipates soon-after.
Nothing can fill the void.

Monday, 20th August 2001
It seems to me that I am re-entering the territory of philosophy but without the same depressing edge. It’s more got a nihilistic flavour these days. The bland and colourless flavour of nothing.
Despite my goal of doing all my work when I get it, I have not been doing very much work at home and as a result have quite a bit to do.
Art Theory comes first, then Drawing. Sculpture is easy to do and Art History can be done on the holidays.
I have been trying to make myself go get a job but my apathy defeats me. I do not care enough about to go get a menial job to earn some. I regard any job that I could get now as menial. I still want to get a job at Bunnings though.
“To see grey, where once there was only Black and White.” I used to seek black and white, then I started to see grey too and then all I ever saw was grey.
Grey represents the middle ground, indecision, uncertainty, the area that exists in between, neutrality. It is a very uninspiring colour. I like grey a lot.
God, is my Dad still here? When is he gonna leave? He better not try to speak to me, I don’t watn to to that narcissistic bastard. I want him to go to Poland now and leave this country forever and stay there, as far away from me as possible.
And when I’m older, I’’ be living somewhere on this fucked up planet and my father will die and I will be blissfully oblivious to this. Or I’ll get an e-mail form some Government population registrar notifying me with precise and dispassionate English of my biological father’s death. Then I would print it out a thousand times and make a collage out of them and exhibit it and sell it for a large sum of money.
Ha, ha. I wish.
It’ll be more like him trying to get in touch with me during the last years of his life to get me to sit side by side with him while he dies and I’ll go “Who is this? No, Sorry you must have the wrong number, my father died while I was a child.” Then hang up.

The flavour of the day is bland.
The flavour of tomorrow is bland.
The flavour of the month is Bland.
The flavour of my life is bland.
I do not what to do these days. My writing has lost it’s virulence and is becoming and more laboured. My art is more about nothing than ever and although technically it is better, it means less to me. My outlook on the future is bleak. Although it isn’t my current frame of mind, I can see my choices in the future being between the pills, the razors, the train or a thousand acids.
Do not interpret me as being suicidal and extremely sad and depressed and having nowhere else to turn, it would be more about boredom than anything. What can I see but grey? What can I hear except silence? The colour is being washed out of this picture I live in. Fade to white, ash to ash.

Tuesday, 28th August 2001
How would he be portrayed? Or, more importantly, when? Would death be the only method of public emancipation? The Art world is dissolute.
I see a problem. Art used to be popular, an important part in society and culture. Now it is cast aside as worthless. Why? Because it has become stagnant.

Wednesday, 29th August 2001
There are no advances, or even discoveries in the world of. Art is being embraced by atrophy. The dust has settled for over half a century and now clogs the thing, rendering it passively mobile and no longer self-convoluting. I need to stir it back into some sense of what it once was. Before we forget about it entirely.

Who am I to judge what is trivial and what is important?

We all try to live, normal, orderly lives within self-imposed rectitude when in all honesty we are committing perfidy of the soul.
We are not all the same. Infact we are not similar at all. Well, I am not anyway. I fit in no demographic.
Our desires differ from person to person. Our desires may be illegal or socially unacceptable but we still want those things we so desire.
That is the folly of society.
We are individual beings. Complacency and imposed desires is what we participating in unactively. I want food, I want McDonalds I want to kill someone, I will watch a violent movie instead.
We are all animals. Beasts of Lust, Rage and Primeval Instinct.
But since now I wear a tie, it is within my threshold to deny, the fact that I am, we are all Bloodthirsty, Fuckthirsty, Sadistic Animals.
I pay for things to tell me otherwise and I have to work in some menial place to be able to pay for these things.

Ha ha. Look at me. Habitat. Suburbia, Inner City. And look at what startling effects living in these habitats has had on the animal.
He is constantly advancing without taking any steps forward.
He is the leader of the pack.
He is the matser of his domain.
But, wait a minute... Where is his domain? His dwelling? The place where everything must be subverted to his omnipotent will?
In his mind.

A crazy, clay-laden kaleidoscope bearing the images of sultry lesbians. I take comfort in the memory.
I’m not threatened by you.
Great, I am glad you are not.

Modigliani is an artist. Through and through. Pompous, Ill, addicted, lost, a tragedy in every sense of the world. Dead by 30.
On, to be there in the early 1900’s where ether and opium and absinthe and cocaine were a novelty, don’t forget the hush. How could I forget the hash?

I am doomed to failure even bore I obtain the slightest impulse to hold the pen or paintbrush or pencil.
It will all come out being entirely the obfuscated and muddled thing it was not meant to be.
Such is the treachery of language. Many have delved deeply into the realms of language, its purpose/ usefulness / pitfalls etc etc...
So I shall not dwell on ground well traversed.
What hasn’t been, though? I see footprints everywhere!
Even on Mars? Aah, not yet, but soon

Monday, 3rd September 2001
Marquis de Sade, very interesting person. Elizabeth Bathory, interesting also. Baudelaire, hard to get around but interesting nonetheless.
Le Shit. I want to learn French. Oui Oui Oui.
Less than a week until I turn 18 and I see that day as I so unoriginally see every day, with disinterest and apathy.
When will I at least gain some kind of semblance of clarity and coherence?
I have TAFE tomorrow. I haven’t been for a whole week due to Bronchitis which I caught at Paul’s.

Wednesday, 5th September 2001
The Grand Narrative. A thing to be despised. In these days any grand narrative is outrageously obsolete, completely outdated.
This, most people acknowledge to an extent that suits them. Oh fine, I don’t mind having to work with women that are getting paid the same amount. I can handle that because I am aware of the time’s a changin’, I’m not that old, you know. But I can’t accept a lesbian couple wanting a baby, no way. I am a product of the nuclear famiyl so it should be for everyone.
See what I mean?
When we realise that no one has the supreme autority to try to impose a grand narrative upon us, it will be too late to reverse the damage done by thinking, like we are wanted to, that what we really want is a grand narrative. Convincing ourselves that we want a job and children, that want to be a typical Joe Citizen.
This is nost enough to satisfy. Repression of our inner most desires has become commonplace. I am no longer aware of what I want, others are deluded as to believing they are satiated.
In each of us is a hole, an abyss, an insatiable gaping maw that we try to fill with our numerous things; Money, Sex, Drugs, Murder, Bestiality, Rape, Religion, War, Homosexuality, Coprophilia, Sadism and Masochism. What are all of these things but creations of an empty human?
Can it be that the folly of the intelligent man is to coexist with this emptiness? Does consciousness take away some core fundamental part of our being? Or is the loss of this thing only because of recent changes in our thought patterns?
Maybe it is simply a by-product of evolution.
More intelligence = less compassion??
The piece of us wil lbe found and it will fill the gap but it will be belated.

When I was younger I was certain that the end was nigh, the apocalypse just around the corner, the armageddon a week away. I am not entirely aware as to why I thought this. Things were bad, but that bad, but not that bad. Things are worse today but I no longer grasp belligerently to the belief that the end is soon. I have simply resigned to that fact but I am not going to sit around in an apathetic torpor waiting for it to come or make declamations of doomsday within the city. There is no point because in essence, all will be for naught.
Just live, day to day, Carpe Diem or Carpe Noctem, if you like, whatever floats your boat and make the most of what remains.

I became enlightened today to the meaning of fundamentalism. Well, this is what I think it is.
The belief of reverting back to the basics/ essentials/ needs of existence.
I looked it up in the dictionary and the definition was similar: “of, affecting, or serving as, the base, essential, primary.” That’s the definition for fundamental which correlates with my definition but this struck me as odd.

“fundamentalism” n. - fundamentalist n. One laying stress on belief in literal and verbal inspiration of Bible and other traditional creeds.”
That does not seem correct. Man existed long before the Bible or other traditional creeds thus these creeds are not fundamental in sustaining human life.
Thus I prove that religion is but a whore. It’s tacky red lacquered fingernails scratch marks all throughout our language and culture, like we are whores. Whores to everything.
Whores to God
Whores to the $
Whores to the Grand Narrative.
Primarily, we are whores to the $ we get fucked for cash, get taken advantage of for someone else’s benefit.
Wow, how the hell did this go from fundamentalism to whores?
Anyway, yeah. If we just had our fundamental needs for survival and nothing else, would life be better? No conscious / subconscious desires because we have all the things we need to exist. It is only lately with all these conceptions of self-created needs that things start to fall apart. I need this and that and make-up and hair-gel and a mobile phone and a car and a television. NOPE! All you need is food, water, shelter.
I guess that all these self-created needs stem from intelligence and our ability to question. I don’t know for sure because I aint no literaray, philosopical genius.
That’s enough for today but i’ll finish by saying Genuflection is for the weak of will.

Thursday, 6th September 2001
She wipes her brow with a slim hand which is also covered in a sheen of sweat. The movement is heavy, a burden in this heat.
Walking by the side of the road she feels the sun beating down upon her shoulders and neck. Every step brings forth another drop of sweat from her extremities. Feels like it’s chafing.
Bleeding backwards and beyond.
Cataclysimic profusion of untold desire kept with us, hidden within the dirt and dust.
We must uncover it, turn the pages, shake loose the dust, recover our primeval lust.

Yep. It’s official. For my 18th Birthday I am getting a dictionary, sadly, you may think of my own behest.
What does this reflect? A dictionary for your 18th Birthday? Bizarre, to say the least.
I know that I will value it more than anything else I would have received and maybe it will pay off.
I wanted the dictionary because I want to write, seriously write. Write, but what to write, or what not to write? Fiction, Philosophy? Something New?

Trouble’s a brewin’ in Belfast between the Catholics and Protestants. Catholic primary students can’t walk through the sectarian divide to school. Protestants hurl rocks and vehement verbal abuse at them, I don’t know why they are conflicting but it must be felt a very important thing to hate each other enough to scare little Catholic Girls.
Yet another sign of the degradation of humanity.
I wonder if Paul will ring me this weekend. If he does then I will probably end up having a party at his but if he doesn’t then I will go clubbing or whatever with as many people as I can muster.
I am hesitant to ring Paul because it would be rude to ask him, I’d rather if he suggested it.
I also want to know pretty soon so I can start asking people to go.
Binge drinking is on the increase, government officials desire warning labels on alcohol. Yes, the ubiquitous solution of warning labels!

Sunday, 9th September 2001
I am paranoid about Paul’s attitude towards me. I wonder if my paranoia is as baseless as I wish it to be. I have cause to be suspicious.
Nevertheless, hither to celebration of my legal adulthood. Eighteen, no more innocence, the time for me to be is dawning. As I look around my room, scattered pages of Baudelaire, Marquis de Sade, Varg Vikernes, artworks, rolling papers I see. Are these things defining of me?
What will arise form all this tumult, completely human in it’s contradiction, I will emerge as a significant character. But significant to what?
Baudelaire I read with an autonomous, ingrained fervor the written word but without the accompanying interest. The language is almost archaic to me, each sentence demands it’s own individual contemplation, it’s unique meaning unravelled once at a time. I have not limitless insight and patience to do this but I try.
No matter, I shall revisit the writings of Baudelaire when I have gained greater understandings of its complexity.

Monday, 10th September 2001
I received a letter today from my father. I was going to throw it away but I decided not to and inside there was a money credit paper thing for $100. Cool, but I still threw away the card it came in.

Wednesday 19th September 2001
I am a whirlpool of nothing and something unidentifiable and unknowable. The only words that come close to is Despondency and languor. I think these feelings are derived form the fact that I desire nothing of Western origin, convention or virtue. Does that make me inhuman?
I don’t want to live in a mortgaged house with three children, a wife, a dog and a boat. These are Western. I don’t want these.
Materialism over Spiritualism = West.
Spiritualism over Materialism = East.
Neither of these preconstituted methods/ systems of values appeal to me. Is there anything else? Something beyonds the confines of East and West? Some other way of living your life? The only thing that resonates in my mind is the theory that happiness is ignorance. Don’t know, don’t care. What you don’t know can’t hurt you. Anti-intelligene. You learn, you worry, you speculate, you lose yourself, your footing in reality.
And all that I can see is the degradation of reality...

Monday 24th September 2001
How do you know what it is like to want nothing.
I have 4 days until I re-enrol for TAFE. I desire nothing. I want no Diplomas or Certificates but the time is now, to make a choice and my choice will probably be Diploma in Fine Arts.
Methodically I deconstruct my hope, my wishes, my aspirations. Then I realise that I don’t deconstruct them because there is nothing to deconstruct. All that there is, is an abyss, a deep bottomless chasm where happiness, hope, compassion and all other humanistic characteristics would reside.
At least I fit the cliche of an artist. Insane vs Brilliancy. Insane is winning at the moment.

Something new that I have noticed is that I am viewing myself and not really knowing whether I have control. There is some degree of interaction between me and myself (where does one end and the other begin?) but ultimately it is still linear or heirarchical in interface.
It’s like this.
I start doing something without contemplation/ thought of what I am doing.
Then,
My conscious mind recognizes that my body is operating from a thought that was not its own,
Then,
My brain rationalizes my actions and stops the action
Then,
It happens again. A vicious cycle. The food chain.
Happiness is fleeting.
Only nothing is forever.
There will be always be nothing.

It has been a while since I faced reality. I think about reality but I don’t come into close contact with it anymore. Fore me, reality is some thing to hide form, to escape because what can you get from reality except what is already three? All the good shit lies in your mind.
Reality is grey, very very grey.
It is what it appears to be; nothing more, nothing less.
It is solid concerete, not malleable. You can try to bend or twist it – into a shape that you like, but with reality being reality, it will eventually snap back, untwist and revert to the original state. So what is the point of trying to shape something that will return to its’ original form sooner or later?
I see no point, unless you are forgetful or ignorant enough to keep on changing and changing and changing and changing and never give reality a chance to return to original form.

Flicking back younder, I can see a better me, better than this chaotic, contradicting , masochistic, schizophrenic piece of anarchistic white trash that I have become.
But I choose not to howl my sorros to any full moon lest the world falls apart from the clamour.
I think it is high time for me to start writing a lot...
again. I am eighteen and I am capable of writing good stuff. I know I am, others think I am better than I think I am. I have to utilize what I have,
and write profusely.
I have realized that in this entry I have probably referred, to myself with the word “I” more than every other passage.

Growing up in this day and age is a lot more difficult than everyone thinks. For example, I have few morals. I do not believe in any mainstream religion, I do not believe in society so you could brand me an anarchist.
I do not want chidlren or a pet or a car. I do not think Western ideals are my own (so call me an Islamic Fundamentalist).
This is just the tip of the iceberg. Inside I am unrecognizable by simple English definition. It is of such a complex nature that no word in any language could define myself without damaging the reality of the thing that is me.
So now I am left amid the chaos and turmoil to contemplate what could be the cause of me. In other words, what went so wrong?
You are you life experiences said my year 11 English Literature teacher. He believed it wholly, it was his motto to life, a motto that he probably picked up from Dead Poets Society or a similar teacher’s resource film.
Yeah I remember him saying it and I also remember thinking that your genetic makeup also contributes to your identity, your being so I was right and the teacher was wrong.
That was then, and this is now. I cannot simply deem that motto wrong and forget about like I did in my early adolescent years. The motto requires introspection, something which I had no time for in year Eleven. Now I have a great amoutn of memory to introspect, and more skills to decipher the meanings of my memories.
And I also have a need now. I want to know what went wrong, identify it, then p

Tuesday 25th September 2001
There are so many I could’s and I can’s in my future. The world is my oyster,
but I don’t like oysters.
Aren’t oysters meant to be swallowed whole?
I think of the future and think that my future self will not recognize me now. This is because for there to be a future me I must change. If I have the same state of mind, outlook on life, that I do now then I will most certainly be dead, and probably by my own hand.
My mind cannot break away from the gravitational pull of the black hole that I see as “Futility of Existence.” You’ve heard of resistence is futile, I bring you Existence is Futile.
Overknowledge, that is knowing things that would be better unknown, is the instigator of my belief. I am aware of my mortality, my limitations, my uncertainties, my faults, etc etc..
I am aware of the futility of existence. What is the point of existing as a conscious being? An animal is happier than me because an animal does not think, think about the meaning of life, or think about their imminent death. They do not know that death is inevitable.
Death is inevitable. Death is the great devil of Western Ideology. We are beings of materialism. We spend our lives amassing multitudes of objects through a lifetime of sweat and toil, only to have death come along and make it all worthless. Corpses care not for money or homes or a genuine Picasso, or a Rolls Royce, or a kilo of coke, or a catamaran, or a nation in mourning.
Get it? We spend our entire lives in material orientated frames of my thinking yes we are rich and happy and yes I love it, then you die and all your riches means nothing.
So what is the answer? Eternal life to enjoy our objects? No, that would not work, because our greed and desire would also be eternal and eventually the whole world would not suffice the desire to possess things/ objects/ stuff.
Is there an answer?
Yes, there is. Do not ask the question, that is the answer.
Do not spend your life saerching for the answers, or any answers. The darkness of ignorance may shroud us from the lumantion of enlightenment but it also saves us from ourselves.
Ignorance is bless.

Wednesday 26th September 2001
Blatantly I made the point that village life was not for me. You could say that I got bit by this wanderlust that is going around. Needless to say everyone in the backwater village of Halfigo will come to that conclusion.
Why I am leaving? I don’t really know and why am I going to leave sometime this week? I know the answer to that question. It’s the everpresent mundanity, the smothering smog of quaint village life that I can not stand much longer. It feels like a stifling smog, sticking in my airways and lungs, cloying and choking. It is so, so.... well boring I guess.
There I said it. Halfigo is boring. The most boring place in the world and I’m gonna leave soon. Be red of this bland life forever.
Recently, I haven’t been sleeping too well at night.

Friday 5th October 2001
All around me, bright colours specifically chosen to grab attention beckon me with all too-reall hues of yellow, red, blue. All are non-existent in nature.
What kind of fucking place is this anyway! There is only trash everywhere. Trash via media, trash in the air, the water we drink. Trash in what we read. Trash. Just Fucking Trash. Big heaps of Crap. Unscalable mountains of it.
Here, there. Absolutely fucking everywhere.
Oh so despondent. I am partial to sporadic bursts, like the pain from a stab wound in the dark, punctured flesh, or extreme despondency. They previous paragraphs prove this point.
Huh? Trash? What I once so vehemently spouted makes no sense to me, or at least it makes less sense. Yes, there is a lot of trash, but I can still live despite of it. I can still live in ignorance.

21st October 2001
I see the time
turn to slime
pleasure unravelled
appearance dishevelled
Puritanical Pistachio

Now I know not what is. It is merging with what once was as my sense of time is turned to slime.
Survival seems top on everyone’s list. Even though their personal safety is not threatened, they are taking rudimentary precautionary steps to survive. Anthrax is scaring everyone silly. Consumer confidence is killed. No one wants to fly because no one wants to die.
Where is the devil with pointed beard and tail dominating our minds, and exceeding our fears? Bin Laden desires the death of the west, particularly USA, Britain and Australia.
We are on the list now, the hitlist. Al Quaeda’s hitlist.
Saw Lauren, Diana and Vanessa on Friday. Don’t remember much apart from spewing all night and the general annoyance that David inspires in all those around him. The unbearability is increasing I think any association with him is looking feint in the future.
It does not bother me that my patience has worn thin.
I am goign to ring Lauren and Diana soon and do something with them. It has ben a while and we have to make up for lost ground.
I lay now in bed, Sunday Evening, two major assignments due in 3-4 days. My mind is blank. How long has it been since I have had a firm foothold in reality? I do not know. Reality is something for me to seek refuge from in the sanctity of intoxication, insanity and absurdity. Other things cant pop into the mind of the moment. My incapacitation at my current state of apatheticness arouses a slight concern somewhere in my ID or is it EGO or is it Super-Ego? Hmm, it all sux.

Tuesday, 23rd October 2001
From an utterly dismal afternoon I managed to exhume some happiness from the catacombs of myself. I’m happy, pleased, sated am.
Why am I happy? I’ll get to that later. Let me tell you about my sadness first.
The day was fine, Tuesday, Printmaking, my favourite class. It was good, got to scratch into metal plates. The class was quiet, apart from Adam, So I got on with my work. Managed to do the sausage sizzle and change the date of my Art History tutorial in the same day. Quite a productive day it was, it was.
Then I got sad, and angry. It started on the train, random noises made my random people. Random mumbling by decrepit old men, people in suits frowning, young armies of secretaries reading fashion magazines. All these things made me suddenly very sad and angry. I sat wallowing in these emotions while one word ran repeatedly through my mind. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. I was feeling very despondent and a little worried at the corrosive vehemence of the aforementioned emotions and how it affected me. The constant repetition of the word “Nothing,” also struck me. Nothing, it was my entirely for that train ride.
Well I got off at Joondalup, and then onto the bus. By now, the whirlwind of emotions had left, leaving the dust behind, tired and sad and one word etched in my mind. Nothing.
All for nothing, nothing for all.
That is what I was thinking about. Not a good thought.
Then I rang David found out Lauren broke up with Matt after one year.
And I, selfishly, most unlike myself, wash happy. You know, caged bird and all that, plus I saw my own conception of life change.
If something that simple can bring happiness, a silly smile, a jump in my hop, a pep in my step, then there is hope for me after all.
La, La, La.

18th November 2001
It is during a thunderstorm 6:00pm that I feel the urge to write, the essential human compulsion to document and identify.
It is Vicki’s 18th this saturday. I feel obliged to go. We are supposed to see Lauren and Kelly this Saturday. I am obliged to go. I am not torn between the two options. I am going to see Lauren and Kelly first then I shall decide whether an appearance of Vicki’s 18th is feasible.
I desire money. What for? To buy Portishead CD’s, my own computer, a video camera, a manual camera for photography, a tripod for the video camera, high performance video and photo-editing software, a kick-ass surround system, a marijuana plantation, a kick ass girl and kick ass drugs.
I desire money. Money to burn and waste. Money so plentiful that it means nothing.
Thunder and lightning. J.K Rowling is earning billions. I want to too. But writing for escapism is not my style. I write to de-obfuscate the murky mists that blind reality. To make via poignant observations the harsh and unpleasant truth. Write to test, not to satisfy.

She stood awkwardly still battling the omnipresent nausea she lost, consciousness too. Must’ve been sedated or something, she reasons.
Her captor was unknown to her. Of the reason why she was caught and caged like a beast.
The nausea subsided to a bearable level. She blinked rapidly, trying to focus the blur of her vision to her surroundings.
Hard stone walls, an oak door, barricaded and adorned with a window which was barred. She strode towards the window and somewhat stereotypically grabbed the iron bars. Yes, it is a dungeon, a prison and I am in here, encased in stone at a mortal’s whim.
She blinked and the iron bars melted away. Cautiously, as to not rip her fine silk apparell, Princess Tymoralia crawled through the window and emerged in a dark, damp corridor, scantily illuminated with the odd torch. She could the entrances, several cells along either side of the corridor.

Now I write by candlelight, artificial illumination gone due to lightning. I read by candlelight too, reading of days gone by, past worries, ancient attitudes.
I read and noticed little except for the gap between this entry and the previous entry. I wrote in my visual diary instead of in here. All my thoughts about September 11 and all other stuff is in my visual diary.
I should read it. Gain an insight as to who I was since I havent’ been able to remember.
I wonder if I will be apprehensive towards the coming weekend. A crazy weekend it will be. They usually are if Lauren and Kelly are involved.
I will get intoxicated with the one that I think about and I will see what will happen. One thing I know is that my previous actions and beliefs are rendered obsolete. I am older now. No longer a part with my former self or my former ways. I am an individual now, you can’t correlate me for ease of understanding and I think that Lauren understands this. And that’s all that matters.

On to matters closer to home, I haven’t been thinking about much this month. Been busy with TAFE and stuff so I haven’t been able to wallow instinctively in my mud-hole of depression. I seem to have dragged myself through the mud and up onto dry land where everything has more succint implications. There are more colours here too.
My candles have almost melted away and I will be in darkness, unable to bathe myself in anaesthetizing electricity.
Back to basics, eh?

It is 7:10pm now. No electricity only rain and lightning outside.
I just remembered. Seb rang me yesterday when I was still feeling ultra-stoned.
I reember tellign him about Lauren and her house in Hamilton Hill and he told me that is where Spanky lives now with Tangi who has a child. He also told me of a story he wrote about Happy Hardcore and Drum n Bass. He was enamoured when talking about it.
I barely remember yesterday or the day before. I guess that the Myristicin was the cause of that I remember sleeping for the majority of yesterday. I felt so tired and ultra-stoned. All I did yesterday was eat and sleep.

Monday, 19th November 2001
Yet again my forever inquisitive nature bids me to unravel what shall be this weekend. Why can I not just let it be instead of probing and examining everything incessantly?
$45 million award for Osama bin Laden.
Sunday, 25th November 2001
I am watching SBS World News and see no good news. Only death, destruction and pollution.
I emerge with the light of dawn in my eyes into a world where the pre-pubescent are familiar with the word “terrorist.” I return with the darkness of dusk in my soul, respite coming in the form of the scant stars in the black sky.
There are less of them every night.
Creeping belligerently into the thick quagmire and then, striding despondently out of it.
The pure hues are lost. Only tainted mimicry of what once was remains. I know all too well that the remnants will not suffice.

This diary is almost full. Will I replace it with a new one when there are no more blank pages? Perhaps...

The memories of what once was supercedes that which is. What we had, once lost, now found is not the same. A doppleganger into which we pour our truths and our ambitions only to receive back hollow fulfilment.

The problem is that there is no clearly identifiable and immediate catastrophe awaiting us but an agonizingly slow and painful demise that we can’t see or hear thus making us unaware of it.
Can it be identified?
Understood? Can it even be found? Proved to exist?
Can it be avoided? Subverted? Stopped?
I think not as it has been with us ever since the first seeds of consciousness were sowed in the fertile earth. Now it grows still, sucking the earth dry, rendering it fallow. A cancer, a parasite that is in us all. Leeches sucking the lifeblood dry.
An empty husk will remain a testament to the hollow fulfilments of humanity.

Monday, 26th November 2001
The nothingness is returning but this it is accompanied with a baseless and sporadic anxiety.

3rd December 2001
I am aware of the majority of my past and present acquaintances are starting to stagnate. Conversation is stale.
It is but a mirror, a mirror that magnifies.
It is so incredulous, so ineffable how much I am irked by the aforementioned. Am I just a social hypochondriac? Are these anxieties the figments of my paranoia? Am I the source of the deterioration of any social relationships I have?
I do not know the answers but I do know that whereever I go in the future, the road only leads the way for one, the path too narrow for any other, dichotomous personalities included.
One way, one well, one person.
Me.
No one can follow or stride alongside me. I go alone now.

As I seek to distance myself from others, I hold an inquisition into myself.
Introspection. Self-exploration...
Eh, why bother?
There isn’t anything worth finding in there. There There Scare.

30th December 2001
The paranoiac in me has disappeared for the time being as I see that life is opportunity.
My noncommital side screams as I contemplate taking an oath. An oath to succeed. To try my fucking hardest to be a person with their names inscribed upon the consciousness of many. Do I have what it takes? How long will it take? What do I have to do? If the legions of family, friends and teachers are anything to go by, then I have to do what I always do.
Maybe I have talent like they say but do I have anything to offer the world? I can speak the truth but does anyone want to hear it? I might be a flavour of the month, the wake up call kid or something gimmicky like that.
We shall wait and see if I can help this world of depravity.
Ha ha how prolific of moi.

Sarah just came around and we exchanged pleasantries and bitchings. She is one of the few people I see from high school still. Saw Cassie today and got her number again.

I desire to write a wake up call
Wake up globalization gluttons capitalist cunts
fundamentalist fuckheads
All modes of exist3ence known to us are obsolete now. None of them will succeed because humans are obsolete.

Things I want;
Money and happiness
The two are inextricably linked. It is said, but it is truth nonetheless.

2nd January 2002
There are two sides to me and to most people. Them and who they think they should be. Society imposes upon us this other side.

Kim and Lauren are somewhere in between. I am not too sure what that means to me but I know now that I am not keen for her anymore. In a way I actually prefer it this way as I don’t have to change myself or challenge my anxieties. This rut is too comfortable for me to get out of.
What am I supposed to do with my life? Unlike some people I do not feel the need to compete or take a role in society. So where do I go now?
Future is uncertainty for me. I have no real plans, nothign I strive for, my real desires I do not know, what do I want?
I can’t answer that question at the moment.

Now I realise that it is 2002. It is hotter than last year. Wow 2002. Fuck you 2002. I dislike this year already. Don’t ask me why.

Battle for survival. Before the invasion – figuratively, now – literally.
I am trying to stay alive in a world where death and demons exhumed from the darkest depths of my consciousness.
I try to blink the horrors away, thinking them figments from my self-induced terror. But they don’t go away. I watch as if in a dream. All too real.
The brown hairy one with huge fangs begins to tear at a corpse, oversized fangs piercing the flesh of an old woman with ease. I think I am safe for now in this building.
It is a big building. To keep some kind of sanity in the past three days of living there I have explored the building. Most of the floors belonged to a big name bank. I can’t remember the name anymore. Some floors are empty, to Lease i guess. The rest are more office space, pin boards, computers, cubicles, paper, stuff like that. I keep on losing my place in the offices as they all look eerily the same texture, color, sound. Repetitive.
Sleep is something I need but every single bump and scrape at night sends me mad with fear. At least there is lots of coffee so I don’t have to sleep.

Monday, January 7th 2002
I wake up at 11:00am. It is hot outside.
Twelve hours of dreams immediately flee my mind like animals on an exodus from a firestorm in their native bushland. I remember going back to sleep again and again to finish the dream/s or at least see where they led to but I woke up mind clear of any residual images of emotions.

It’s now around 11:30am and I sit morosely still foggy with sleep clutching a coffee, pen and cigarette alternately.
Struggling to feel anything to look forward to. I despise my life, feel that there is nothing to look forward to.
I do not know what to do anymore. People I know generally mean less and less to me. I have no status beyond that of a mentally deplorable bum. The world is festering, anything sweet turning sour – the only yumminess is derived from excessive amounts of sugar and flavour enhancer 621. The only exuberance for life coming from the reglar intakes of caffeine. The world I live in is despicable. No truths are told anywhere. Even idealistic altruisms are discarded for capitalist greed and materialistic appeasement.
The soul is now sickly, diseased and barely discernable amongst all the scum and plague-ridden thoughts in our mind.
The heart pumps blood, that’s all. Aspirations and dreams are now aspirational and dream$@hotmail.com
Have you surfed the shitstream today?

I guess I am just stuck in limbo. Struggling to be myself in a place that ceaselessly promotes the obliteration of self in the favour of being part of something better. I talk not of God. Spiritualism is dust that clogs up the vents and cogs of the money-fuelled engine of society.
Quit being yourself, desires that do not correlate with that of the whole are not necessary.
Your have no place in the world but as part of society you do have a place.
Fuck that shit. I am no tool, no resource, no number. I am myself infinitely complex and confused but part of no machine. I am no slave.
I shall do what I want and fuck the world if it does like it for I throw myself into the bloodied fray, struggle to live in the battle and emerged scarred and bleeding but still myself.

I know it and so do some of my friends. What use is fakery? Pretending, lying, hiding? I can imagine quite clearly the angst my friend Paul experiences. He is swimming in the lies and greed. False is law in the workplace. Be yourself and drown.
The alternative is to incorporate the typeface, the apex of a good worker/ employee into yourself and swim along the top, hopefulyl towards a goal, promotion, respect whatever that you did not earn but the typeface did. You lose yourself underneath. It tries not to drown.

Congratulations world you have earned my hate. You fucking whore pieces of shit.
Needless to say, I am fat and happy.

I can’t sleep. So I write instead. Watched a pointless movie on SBS, probably the worst foreing I have ever seen. It did not affect me in any way. It was boring and stupid.
If you do not have anything nice to say then don’t say it at all. Going off on a tangent yet again.
It is deathly still now and probably near midnight. I yawn now where minutes before I laid in the dark staring at the ceiling, thoughts drifting around the room. What were my precise thoughts? I remember only the thought to write.
Now I recall my other thought, more like a hazy and downtrodden, strode through a hallway, “I can’t take this shit anymore,” did he say it or think it?
Then another scene. The man sitting in darkness, fringe all too picture perfect in the way it casts spiky shadows on his face: eyes glistening barely suspectible in the darkness. A silver six-chambered pistol. Look like a magnum but shorter with their barrell in his mouth.
“Right... in... here.”
Moon fog 2000 plays to the scene.
This is what I thought/ saw and I think this is the first time I have documented it.
Now I remember it but I know it is not the same scenes as I saw and created moments earlier. Aestheticism dictates the way I recall it now.
I think about the origin. Who is the man? The embodiment of my mental anguish? No, that would be too easy. The man is a much more ambiguous figure, paradoxically meaninful and meaningless. I feel fine now and did then, so what impelled the creation of these scenes/