Dear Diary

Dear Diary,

I got my head checked
By a Jumbo Jet
It wasn't easy
But nothing is ...
No.

This whole deal is so fucking painful. I swear man - I feel like a fucking pin cushion. Saw one on tv and thought - yeah, that's me. What is me? I have these sides and ... I'm probably bipolar. Maybe that's it. That would explain a lot - hook me up to a tanker of drugs and watch the disease melt away like a bad dream - like waking up at nine on a saturday thinking you're late for work - which I'm all too familiar with - in all aspects of the statement.

Tomorrow a trip has been planned. Without much forewarning to my person - to the science museum, I will go - with three hideous children in tow. Perhaps a walk down to the historic place of yore, dandy-o - what a bore! Muahahhaha! I'm a poet and you can complete the rest of that.

Such enthusiasm is rare and disturbing. Very fake. What is real? It's like "Ghost in the Shell" - I'll admit I'm pretty dumb when it comes to watching and reading shit with deeper meanings, so when i saw this film the first time ... some 6 years ago, in the middle of it all going pete tong, I didn't really get it. I didn't understand why she had to be destroyed. Why it had to go wrong in the film. I saw it again a few weeks ago, probably around the anniversay (coincidentally enough) of me watching it the first time now that I think about it. And a lot more made sense. The philosophical meanderings of the animated creations, though as subtle as a muskrat taking a dump on an ipod, were ones that I could understand, nay even associate with to some extent.

Perhaps it'll be another 6 years before I begin to understand "Innocence" - ;D

It's like history - tracing back World War 2 to events more than a century before. I can trace moments in my life to ... years ago. This leading to that. And that, in turn, giving rise to that thought. That idea. That action. And this is where this takes place. Leading to this. To now. Creepy. A moment's revelation brought to you by Ghost in the Shell. And dog food - you pick the brand - Pedigree Chum is all that comes to my head.

My computer's making noises at me. People appearing, disappearing. I'm listening and watching. Like some kind of sick bastard - on a distant machine hooked up to a forgotten terminal. Watching the comings and goings on a small platform connected to a billion more. Technology disassociates humanity from the word. The written word with power and conviction is now a mere ... replication. Where once upon a time, the pen and the paper that it coursed along were one of a kind, unique. The printing press, yes, that did its fair share, but with this machine, where is the point of the word for it to be typed out so coldly and with varying degrees of passion and conviction. Where is the meaning in a message disseminated with such ease? And where, o fucking where, is the thirst for the word that must have once existed in the minds of those blessed with seeing and understanding its divine message under dying sunlight.

My theory about love is that it must exist. Yes, believe it or not - this is indeed me talking. Cynicism aside, it's got to be real. How do I "know" this? Because I know that hate exists. I see it everyday - I have its website bookmarked - www.cnn.com. If such hate must exist all over the planet between every caste, creed, family, sibling, rival, and on and on ... Love must be real. If for nothing else than to serve as the counterpoint that defines what hate really is. Does that give you a warm feeling deep down inside?

I miss passion. I miss feeling a passion for things. I feel it - this energy and drive. And it fades away - the destination, the target much too distant. The goal too obscure. Am I giving up too easily? Doesn't everyone? If it really matters, you don't give up. This is what I tell myself. You have to keep trying. Keep going - let yourself be driven even though it seems the brick wall will never collapse.

And then ... you wonder - what's the point? It's that fine line between reality and fantasy. Yes, the objective seems more ludicrous than a pancreas pierced by a Unicorn's horn, but you keep going? Why? Why not just give up when that's so much easier. Shut your tired eyes and go to sleep. Go to sleep my pet and it'll all go away till you see it in another dream. And then all you have to do is open those precious orbs and never let them shut again. It's a beautiful thing, my darling. That's all that there is to be said, no?

As long as there is conflict, there will be survival. If there is nothing to thwart the journey of the determined, then there will be no need to travel so long and so far. The sand that cuts into the skin. Stings the eyes and dries the lips. Settles on the tongue and sends foul tastes running through the hungry soul. This sand - this flying sea of stinging nettles that cuts but leaves no bruises. A gash across a thick, leathery skin. Peel it off and start again.

Till obscurity hides this word once more.