Don't sell out your beliefs for anyone.
You can make exceptions, but only if it's to give
—not to give in.
Too proud to beg? You betcha.
except for understanding...
I'm finding my feet.—
I want to marry the purdiest girl at the grammar rodeo—no, second. The first will probably be a smoker. Eww, smoke.
Last thing's first, as I never made any notes about what happened after work, whereas I made notes at work about the things I was thinking about earlier.
I bought Soul Reaver, which is a game that used to crash my computer no end of times. But I would keep playing that first fifteen minutes, because I loved it. It's a game about a former vampire who is so badass, he hunts and kills lesser vampires. Wow, that is so beyond goff. Gee, I kinda identify with the character, as I noted on the walk home from the mall. I may not be goth, but I have the effect the goths wish they had. I'm the local spectre of death. I'm about the perfect six feet tall, mostly in black; windwhipped trenchcoat and downturned fedora. All conversation stops on the street within a block of me, as heads turn.
"On a gathering storm comes a tall, handsome man in a dusty black coat with a red right hand."
Even the 'too cool' teen and druggie crowd fall silent midsentence and turn to watch my silent approach. One foot, then the other, taking huge strides, staring through everything. My softest of hearts they will never see. And goths I eat for breakfast. Like Raziel to vampires, so go I. I was goth before there was goth, around here at least, and I will be for a long time. But I'll do it better than anyone else ever could because it is not my look or my attitude so much as how people regard me. The unholy fear.
It makes me giggle, which isn't good for my image. But do I care? No; I'm not goff. I laugh anyway, outloud but to myself, and that just makes them all back that much farther off.
Listening to I Mother Earth's "One More Astronaut," and more recently, "Pisser," have made me think about isolation. And something else.
This morning, there was a bug in the shower. I hit the water to flush him—it, whatever. SPLOOSH! One instant, and it had stopped moving. I thought maybe it would get washed down the drain and survive there in the sewers or something like they usually do. I guess it didn't hold its breath in time. I was disheartened, but shrugged it off. It happens. Then I thought, "Man, those Jains ain't got nothin' on me." I usually don't hurt even a fly, literally, but because I don't want to kill stuff gratuitously; not dogmatically. I'm not the kind of fellow to carry a broom that sweeps insects out of my way when I walk; though neither were any of the Jains I've had the pleasure to know.
These are the Jains I know, I know. These are the Jains I know.
I'm glad I was past the whole "non-interference" thing by the time I heard of that. It's really silly; trying to prevent yourself from having any (negative) impact on your environment. You can't just buffer yourself like that. You certainly can't try to prevent negative impact, because who's to say what's negative? If bugs don't learn to skitter out of the way of feet, they get fat and lazy and stupid and soon you need a shovel to free up your path.
You can't just insulate yourself from the environment. Physics says so. It's not possible to observe a measurement without changing the measurement; that's basic Heisenberg. You'd not only have to cover your mouth with a cloth to prevent inhaling and killing microbes; you'd need to cover your eyes and ears so as not to sense anything. You'd have to sever all input; even the tactile sense that allows you to sense vibrations. You'd be further disconnected that Dalton Trumbo's character in Johnny Got His Gun. You'd be dead. Legally at least. What is the point of existing if you don't live?
"A new revolution, or just resistance?
Is it living, or just existence?"
The same goes for me, though. I can live now, rue and mull when I'm retired.
MUSIC LOUD. BRAIN QUIET. These are the priorities.