I don't think I've ever actually REALLY really faced my raw feelings before, without looking for some bullshit symbolism. Now I will just let the symbolism flow as it does. As it needs to. I'm not pushing anymore. I'm not ashamed of anything right now, which is an incredible thing to say for me.
What the hell do I understand? What do I want to understand? What do I want to stay away from forever? I am wise yet I am a fool. Cliche as it is.
During the past day or so I've been going through intense periods of depression and self-examination, and it reached its climax today. I'm still trying to wean the last bit of it out of me as I sit at this PC in the science lab, surrounded by students actually accomplishing diligence. But suddenly I want to work harder than I ever have in my life, because I am now disgusted with how lazy, unproductive and incompetant I've become.
Life is not where I want it to be, I'm not the person I want to be, and I've reached the ultimate frustration. I'm selfish and naive and haughty. But I want to love again, in selflessness. During the past few hours, I've had this amazing clarity of things and I want to formulate conclusions. I suddenly feel the dire urgency to do so.
My pop culture poetry class had a lot to do with it. I'm just begginning to realize how lucky I am that I nabbed this during drop and add, be it at 9:30 am at the furthest corner of campus. It's giving me the extra push and shove I need to better my writing. Which is to better myself.
I'm not thinking much right now, just penning whatever crosses my mind.
I had a scary dream last night. It involved *someone I know* (as a nightmarish image of scholarly evil), his father, and a dying baby. I need to understand the symbolism of dying babies. She was not dead, only disregarded to die. But I was her savior in this cruel, dark, twisted world. She was naked, with purple bruises and tongue lolling out of her mouth. She was a baby, yet had certain adult forms: a full head of bobbed hair, slender muscular development with adult ratios. But still pre-pubescent.
I've written exploding, hallucinagenic phrases of poetry. I only wish I could call upon that high whenever I craved such inspiration.
But I'm slowly coming down out of it now, as I knew I would. I'm rising from the blackout following that orgasm I rode like a wild stallion through the night. An imperfect phrase, but I like it.