My life is bleh, but then again, isn’t everyone’s? Doubtful…
I think I write because the reality in which I physically live just doesn’t meet my standards. Whether my standards themselves are just too high, or the reality’s standards are just too daunting doesn’t matter, I’m comfortable here in my composition book of love letters addressed to a phantom, even if it gets awfully cold in here sometimes.
Florida State here I come. Time for a another new shocking beginning, monotonous journey, and tragic end, unhopefully.
I wish I could write hackneyed sentimental bullshit professing my love for a school I said I hated minutes before, it’s too bad I have integrity, and actually find the school somewhat productive and conducive to higher education. Shameless hypocrites as far as the eye can see, and as far down as the page scrolls, this is precisely the reason why I’m glad this part of my life is over, too bad these types are everyone ever.
If you’ve never regretted something you’ve done, wanted to take something back, but never could, if you’ve never felt remorse, never felt the hopelessly hollow hunger of guilt, then you’ve never put yourself out there, in the misty cold mountain range of uncertainty, where life is lived, love lost and found, mistakes made, and fears fought, you’ve never lived at all, or at least to society’s standard of a life well spent. For us cabin dwellers, surrounded by these peaks, it’s not such an easy reality, not such an easy life, but many still assume it to be, many assume each life to have the same preference in means and end, but naturally, this is not the case. Cabin dwellers, don’t always say what they mean, or mean what they say, and sometimes, if they say anything at all, you might only be recieivng a fraction of the broadcast, a sliver of motive. Judgment is inevitable. Declared to mean this by doing that, when we really meant that, and did this, it is the conundrom of human language, full of subtly, diversion, omission, and subversion, especially for the cabin dwellers, especially for me. I might hide away in order to judge the passers by to my wooden door, gauge whether they have the mental aptitude to understand what I truly mean, what I truly embody, at the same time, this manipulation of apperance creates rifts in perspective, constrews motivations with predispositions, confuses denotation and connotation, changes my identity from its essence, to the base and contrite face value of statements and actions, without a delving into the truly implied. Although I do this, I think, to be rid of the monotonous and mundane fools of the common era, it’s painful to be misunderstood and misjudged on a veneer of my implicit identity, even by the mundane and obtuse of mind, although intrinsically thier opinion is invalidated with their myopic vision, the pain resides nonetheless. This is another reason the door remains shut and bolted, another reason for isolation, it’s ironic that such a complex plan to be discovered is ultimately defeated by the undesired, the doubters and critics, who present no valuable insight or affinity, it is ironic that a plan for rescue leads to becoming further stranded. I am the stranded, here at Lonely Mountain’s peak, in my little euclidian cabin, geometric and deliberate, the small cabin dweller, the small boy, hung up on the ills of doubters.