Things I am angsting about now:
- School, going back to. Where to live, where to work, how to have enough money for food when Cornell wants everything you make +$500 or so. I got to rap with my A. Manager today about college woes, and that actually made me feel better. My mom keeps harping on me to go to Montclair State; I don't know why. I'd rather re-apply to Rutgers or something and finish my last year there.
- Work, getting sick of. I have problems finding a job that interests me for more than six months. I'm thinking I could actually set myself to do technical writing for a few years, at least, at this point. I love words more than anything but music, I've come to realize. Music will always be a hobby, at least until I have the time and money to dedicate to serious study. But I have a gift with words... the same way that a boy whose wicked smile can charm a girl to bend to his will soon develops a perverse relationship with her, half controlling, half dependent, so I am with words. I am an architect of sentences, drawing together obscure clauses to create unguessed at and unexpressed meanings. Feel free to draw your own Roark analogies.
I ultimately aim to use words and music together, but that's in the distance.
- Loneliness, the struggle with. Have you noticed a sparsity of my livejournal entries lately? I feel fucked up, spun out, and ignored. My journal has always been almost entirely open to all. First, it was for reasons of blanket honesty, but as I've grown to know the lj community, it's been to prevent stagnation. New people almost always post more interesting things than long-time reader/friends, who often stop commenting (reading?) at all. I feel like I could drop the most subtle secret internal revelation, splashed in big letters across your browser window, and all I would get is some joke about how my letters were "large" and penis size. I love jokes. But I long for substance, and that's a demand I place on the reader. That comment link is there for a reason. I require the thoughts of others to devour for my sustenance. I'm tired of cannibalistic feasts on my own same, tired thoughts. And the bitter despair it breeds creates thoughts in me like, "Oh, gee, you're not even going to be able to have fun at Cornell" which I hate, because then it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy, and it's so hard to psych out those kind of thoughts.
A large part of my entity theory, my ego-view, is based in solitude. Witness my thoughtful icon, which has a traveller in a strange land staring off a cliff at a vista where the other people in the world are too small to be seen. My concept of self has never allowed much for the existence of other people; usually in the form of convenience or nuisance. I'm trying to overcome that, or to simply see a different way, so that I can judge one versus the other. Most of my dreams are solitary, or contain vague phantasms of other people who, at their most substantial, are cardboard cutout representations of themselves. And yet, I'm worried people won't want to read this, or will take offense at it. Well, fuck them. I'm writing this for me. If I'm going to complain, I might as well do it in an organized fashion.
- Aging, the consequences of. Most of my life, I have been the hypermature wunderkind, capable of doing things that would take mere mortals weeks to comprehend in a single day. I cannot recall a time when the symbols adults use to convey meaning were just useless squiggles to me. I understood they held systematic information, and it was only four years before I managed to train myself to decode that information. How adorable, he taught himself to read. I've gotten used, in the interim, of my intellect being taken for granted ("You're like that smart kid from Magnolia," Louis once said to me). That's not what my complaint is with. I intend fully to go on achieving beyond what would satisfy most, but soon it will no longer be charming. Sometimes I forget that I'm only 21, and most adults still don't realize that I've been more emotionally mature than they will ever be for more than half a decade. When people remind me of my age, it's usually a shock; first a complete lack of comprehension—I have problems understanding the traditional notion of age... I've always had the same "adult" feeling regarding my own cognition; to think oneself more adult than another is just vanity, and inaccurate, at that. But as I realize what they're saying, it usually dribbles feeling in pleasantly. Soon, that pleasant feeling will go away. And just at the point in my life where I'd stopped feeling that my entire life was behind me... I can now see ahead, or at least, that it is ahead just as strongly as behind. So I will just stop now and admire my accomplishments; through the work of my own hands, I paid my way out of debt in six months and saved enough to purchase a car. My first adult material possession, entirely mine. I may be president of my own company at thirty, but I don't think it will feel more real than this. I don't see how.
- Sleep, the fruitless pursuit of. God, can I just please get some sleep? Last night it was awake from 1:30-5:30. Before that it's been waking up at five or six ante meridiem, no matter what time sleep was achieved the previous morning. I've never claimed to like sleep; it keeps me from doing things, but I can acknowledge that I do need it sometimes. Why can't my body? Being tired at work despite going to bed before ten the night before is unjustifiable. And I know I'm tense. I can't even get a freakin massage to loosen my oaken-knotted back muscles. The treasonous bastards.