|And I used to be such a nice person. (mrfish) wrote,|
@ 2006-05-07 22:24:00
|Current mood:|| drunk|
|Current music:||"It's been a while" Staind|
Too much... Too much...
Musical, went well.
Did concert on quad, everyone loved me.
Rose wasn't there. Though I mentioned it to her.
I decided I'd do my best to die soon. In a conversation with my roommate I realized us writers are assigned to a terrible fate. We are to be the suffering, the dejected, the forgotten, the exiled. Homer was a blind man, Dante was an exile, Petarch was a love sick virgin, Hemingwey was an alcoholic, Shakespeare was reportedly one too, Dostoyesky (sp?) spent time in prison, Marlowe was a drunk and a criminal... we're a bunch of misfits who are meant to live miserable lives.
I feel miserable all the time.
I remember Hamlet's sililoquey, and that keeps me alive.
But I protest this life thing, we are so adament about it. To preserve our OWN lives. I prefer to save others. But that's not the course. Instead I get told how valuable I am. When I realize I'm shit in comparison to the potential of others.
Liz called me a genius. I realize I am. This contributes to my hatred of life... real geniuses hate themselves and thier worlds, only the stupid are complacent.
I think. I will die soon. I feel this way, not out of any plan I have, just intuitively. I want to leave my mark before.
I'll probably find love for once, and lose it in a very bad ironic way. Who knows.
That'll be the crutch that will make whatever mark I leave. A poem. A novel. A short story. Something that'll keep others from killing themselves, that'll make them feel like they matter or that'll make them feel like someone understands.
I am one man. Searching for this purpose of mine. I am a writer. I want to leave my mark. I am me. I don't care for myself.