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From my paper journal
Jul. 9th, 2007 01:01 amGood morning from another long dark nighttime of the soul.
I honestly cannot count the times that I've lain in this bed staring at the screen, hoping vainly for something real and true to come out of it. I've written no less than a dozen usable cases for debate, read even more books that I shouldn't be able to understand, relearned the responses in the Latin Mass so that I can try to get one of the Fathers to start saying one on campus come the Feast of the Exaltation, and written no less than four crappy fics for fandoms that for all practical purposes don't exist, and I might as well burn the lot of it, because it's all base and damnable fantasy - the desire of an underworked brain and an overworked soul to create some pretention of importance to which they might cling rather than further drift into the desparation in which they find themselves.
Waiting for someone to IM and tell me they miss me, want me, love me, hate me, need me, remember me, or that they have even the slightest use for any of the things I am, want to be, or could offer. Obsessively making notes on papers I know I'll never write and writing papers I know I'll never let anyone read unless I'm dead and they find it in the great box of spent notebooks, unlived dreams, captured regrets, and ungiven speeches that represents my sole contribution thus far to humanity. Writing letters that get sealed and hidden and will never feel the dampness of a stamp or the joyful expectation of being ripped open and read, or even the pleasure of being addressed more fully than a single name never to be read by the one who owns it.
It's all I can do to keep from crying, and eventually the pen stops, the pages cease their hallucinagenic turning, the blare of pirated TV goes quiet, and everyone around me gives in to the quintessential human vocation of rest and I, feeling like I am the only one still unclaimed by Dream, weep until the effort of thinking and feeling and hungering for emotion finally forces me into the tender mercies of the dreamtime - in an irony that dazzles me, the only time that I can control my surroundings or make sense of what's going on around me. Lucid dreaming should be denied to those whose own dreams were fed to the tigers of the night before the end of their childhood.
I've been drinking more, turning to the most ancient and most cowardly, save one, of the ways that man has found to hide from himself. I abide in the futile hope that these things can satisfy the hunger which I know they can only temporarily drown out. A deep, insatiable longing for emotion and joy and friendship and sanctity and the living water which quenches mortal thirst. I feel like the monster of Augustine, loose in creation to consume, desiring to have attention and affection and love and honors that are not rightly mine and which are too high a demand on the people in my life.
And the Spirit isn't coming, and books have lost the wisdom that they held in past ages, and Philosophy is no longer a Lady but a whore, and the Church is failing against the gates of the City of Man, which threatens to do what Hell itself cannot, and I sit here, useless to all and waiting once again for this gaping emotional maw to close, for some peace to come to a worn out soul, or for least and smallest grace of avoiding the night and being allowed to join the others in the Dominion of Sleep.
And I know I wasn't right, but it felt so good.
I honestly cannot count the times that I've lain in this bed staring at the screen, hoping vainly for something real and true to come out of it. I've written no less than a dozen usable cases for debate, read even more books that I shouldn't be able to understand, relearned the responses in the Latin Mass so that I can try to get one of the Fathers to start saying one on campus come the Feast of the Exaltation, and written no less than four crappy fics for fandoms that for all practical purposes don't exist, and I might as well burn the lot of it, because it's all base and damnable fantasy - the desire of an underworked brain and an overworked soul to create some pretention of importance to which they might cling rather than further drift into the desparation in which they find themselves.
Waiting for someone to IM and tell me they miss me, want me, love me, hate me, need me, remember me, or that they have even the slightest use for any of the things I am, want to be, or could offer. Obsessively making notes on papers I know I'll never write and writing papers I know I'll never let anyone read unless I'm dead and they find it in the great box of spent notebooks, unlived dreams, captured regrets, and ungiven speeches that represents my sole contribution thus far to humanity. Writing letters that get sealed and hidden and will never feel the dampness of a stamp or the joyful expectation of being ripped open and read, or even the pleasure of being addressed more fully than a single name never to be read by the one who owns it.
It's all I can do to keep from crying, and eventually the pen stops, the pages cease their hallucinagenic turning, the blare of pirated TV goes quiet, and everyone around me gives in to the quintessential human vocation of rest and I, feeling like I am the only one still unclaimed by Dream, weep until the effort of thinking and feeling and hungering for emotion finally forces me into the tender mercies of the dreamtime - in an irony that dazzles me, the only time that I can control my surroundings or make sense of what's going on around me. Lucid dreaming should be denied to those whose own dreams were fed to the tigers of the night before the end of their childhood.
I've been drinking more, turning to the most ancient and most cowardly, save one, of the ways that man has found to hide from himself. I abide in the futile hope that these things can satisfy the hunger which I know they can only temporarily drown out. A deep, insatiable longing for emotion and joy and friendship and sanctity and the living water which quenches mortal thirst. I feel like the monster of Augustine, loose in creation to consume, desiring to have attention and affection and love and honors that are not rightly mine and which are too high a demand on the people in my life.
And the Spirit isn't coming, and books have lost the wisdom that they held in past ages, and Philosophy is no longer a Lady but a whore, and the Church is failing against the gates of the City of Man, which threatens to do what Hell itself cannot, and I sit here, useless to all and waiting once again for this gaping emotional maw to close, for some peace to come to a worn out soul, or for least and smallest grace of avoiding the night and being allowed to join the others in the Dominion of Sleep.
And I know I wasn't right, but it felt so good.
