"You are seeing me on the best day of my life," because it is the only day of my life. The past is memory, and the future is that ever distant tomorrow. It has become a very strange thing, to dread going home. School and academic obligations are a bastion of productivity, education, and camaraderie. I'm busy, busy, busy, makin' plans, stuff to do. Surrounded by action and peers, I won't start crying without provocation. I won't waste my life in falling asleep. I do my homework this year, not because it will benefit me educationally, but because it is a distraction from emptiness. This void is increasingly filled by a preoccupation with beauty. Producing beauty is beautiful: art, literature, music. The occasional conscious thought is beautiful. The grand and magnificent cosmos is beyond my comprehension, but I try to appreciate it. This is still a life of emptiness, light and visions and ideas of the ethereal. Substance, contact, action seem like some other intangible dream, despite my efforts to be a productive and useful person. Form and functionality. Utility and aesthetics.
I've paralleled my division of art and function with my duality of reason and emotion. Everything I engage in is unsatisfying to the ethos and a gross outrage of logos. Out of my control is the burning desire to utterly indulge one extreme at the cost of completely smothering the other. As a cynical child, the life of pure rational is my utopia. As a feckless teenager, I demand the selfish satisfaction of my urges in a wild abandonment of reason. As a human, I am aware that I will never live the purity of these desires. Yet, despite this, I attempt to enjoy them simultaneously, to the destruction of both. It is a shameful embarrassment that yields no pleasure and scathes my companions.
This explanation is my excuse, my exemption from responsibility. I am childish and burdensome and still demanding more.
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