This is called "miseria incontent" and it is excerpted from an a5 pad I had coloured in black on the cover. It dates around 1997 or earlier. I want to share it as it displays my adolescent angsty tendencies well. It contains despondency yet there is still optimism.
Another fruitless day passes and another star disappears from the night sky. Can you feel it? That inexplicable cloud that hangs over your thoughts, heavy and impenetrable. You can feel it when you realise that another star is missing in the heavens. You can feel it when melancholy becomes palpable. You can feel it when the wellspring of inspiration runs dry and only a hard crust, thick and black, remains.
Choke on it, like I do. The black stuff is no substitute for the sweet waters of creativity. It is a pollutant that accumulates with time in one's self. Like lead, in heaviness and immovability. It accumulates weighing you down more and more until the threshold of its non-toxicity is breached and then you die, poisoned.
For now is not the time to step tentatively into the future. I must be bold, endeavouring. There is risk, yes, but the risk of languor is far more deadly.
Stride with vigour through life, ignorant of the losses lest they overwhelm the mind. Take the path that you can learn the most from as the other path, although less painful, is devoid of mental stimulation.
Seek to be eternally inebriated on the joy of existence. Cast away the fetters of social acceptance, social dependance. Stride boldly into new territory and glean whatever there is to glean.
Learn and live.
Another fruitless day passes and another star disappears from the night sky. Can you feel it? That inexplicable cloud that hangs over your thoughts, heavy and impenetrable. You can feel it when you realise that another star is missing in the heavens. You can feel it when melancholy becomes palpable. You can feel it when the wellspring of inspiration runs dry and only a hard crust, thick and black, remains.
Choke on it, like I do. The black stuff is no substitute for the sweet waters of creativity. It is a pollutant that accumulates with time in one's self. Like lead, in heaviness and immovability. It accumulates weighing you down more and more until the threshold of its non-toxicity is breached and then you die, poisoned.
For now is not the time to step tentatively into the future. I must be bold, endeavouring. There is risk, yes, but the risk of languor is far more deadly.
Stride with vigour through life, ignorant of the losses lest they overwhelm the mind. Take the path that you can learn the most from as the other path, although less painful, is devoid of mental stimulation.
Seek to be eternally inebriated on the joy of existence. Cast away the fetters of social acceptance, social dependance. Stride boldly into new territory and glean whatever there is to glean.
Learn and live.
