Although the intensity of the darkness is a rather compelling argument, wallowing in my own self pity seems too great, too daunting a task to take heed of the darkness and fall asleep. I apologize in untimely advance because I am talking in flowers and am likely to do so for the rest of this post.
I wonder why.
Who am I writing for at this time of...time--for a lack of better word seeing as how I wading in a pool of dangerously murky waters, in which night literally melts into day, and twilight into morning. Who am I writing for? In this tone of voice? It's far from objective. Objective, maybe in the sense that it lacks visible partialness for one side or another (the sides are undefined as I do not know how to define them). And yet, this post is entirely subjective since this is actually a journal entry that belongs to me. And I am choosing to employ a distinct tone of voice that may be only strictly mine. "Strictly" is such a condescending word in this sense, isn't it? Who am I to contend that everything I write here tonight is original? I am no stranger to the fruitful practice of finding great ideas and then to take, paste, cut, copy, and delete until fringes of ideas become (the framework for?) my own, or at least what I like to think of as my own--but judging by the number of the personal pronoun "I", "my", and "me" this is a highly biased opinion that should be checked for credibility.
Regardless of the background and credibility of the author (yours truly, in case you dear reader has forgotten), this really isn't a journal entry. Not tonight. I traded my douchey hipster Moleskine for my douchey hipster blog. Does that make it different? Clearly. Infinitely. But judging by my past experience, my private journal-journal entries can be just as douchey and flowery as this blog post that's open to the public. In fact sometimes more so. Usually I don't take the time to publish this shit because, again it raises my douche level by a power of infinity. Thus it pains me to admit that even if it were that every thought I choose to publish is somehow entirely original and of my own, tonight this isn't really just for me. I'm also sharing my private thoughts with anyone who can access the internet (aka. the world excluding some of the elderly or skill-less or isolated or resourceless--a statistic without a number that was acquired from the BBC).
I don't know. It's unclear who I'm writing for. But as long as I choose to publish, it is no longer just for me. Hello there Barthes, you're successfully killing me, you dirty motherfucker.
Anyway. Tangents at 5 in the morning are no better received than tangents at any other given time (ie. 6 in the morning, or perhaps 6:30).
Journalling is something that's supposed to help me sort through my life, decompress, de-confound, de-life. Objectify (or perhaps subjectify) but either way to coalesce into physical existence of a word as compared to a thought of theory (a theory of thought?). Visible objects that exist in the semi-real-digital world seem more digestible than the non-existent entities that are spun entirely in my mind which is guided by a network of synapses and various chemicals.
My mind. My thoughts. The mind. That is why I'm here tonight. Me--the girl who is constantly trying to psychoanalyze herself so that she can create the strongest defenses and justifications against all slander and libel and other true shortcomings. But this isn't just a defense mechanism--these three words facilitates reconstruction in its highest form, reconstruction of self. Mind over matter. Mind over matter. I've willed myself out of anorexia. Obsessive compulsive disorder. Depression. Addiction. Selfishness. Selflessness. I tell myself that I don't have problems and suddenly I don't. It's magic. Signifier and signified. What comes first? Well, in this case the signified. I wish I thought of this two weeks ago, this could've been a kick-ass paper for Media Aesthetics. Once words are written down, do they assume the position of truthfulness regardless of what they actually embody?
If you ask me about my problems in real life, I'll never admit to them. This is the reason why I journal, why I blog. It's confession. To relax all falsifications of existence. In real life, I live to pretend to be so that you, whoever you are, will never see me vulnerable. But in reality, these are the kind of thoughts that go on in my head all day (the kinds that are destined to prove futile for thinking in the first place).
The difference between pretending and being.
Slim to none if I do say so myself.
Mind over matter.
Mind over matter.
What happens when mental capabilities are reached and matter is greater than mind even if it is temporarily?
That produces an unbelievably noticeable bout of inconsistency.
Interesting how inconsistency is my greatest flaw.
Mind over matter, so long as the mind is stronger than the matter.
Currently, the matter is greater than the mind.
"What is the matter?"
"Nothing. I'm fine."
What is the matter?
To say everything is either diplomatic in the sense that it is non-discriminating or immature in the sense that it is melodramatic (the entire world is leaning towards...well you tell me, the entire world).
But to exclude anything, seems like far too dangerous a risk.
After all, if a word can have such great spin, what about an action? An action out of context must be more dangerous than a missplaced word. Maybe. Maybe not.
...
The unbearable lightness of being.
The unbearable weight of pretending.
Mind over matter.
What if there is no matter left?
What is the matter?
Nothing.
...
I'm slightly distressed.
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