August

I realize I should probably write something in here. It's bad enough that I have such dire thoughts about myself, the nature of the world, the existence of determinism, and all the mad ramblings that come of questioning the world too much. All experiences are either good or bad, but they are essentially the same, like two sides of the same coin. As the philosopher prince put it (Hamlet), "Nothing is either good or bad, but thinking makes it so." I do not need to think that way again. What really concerns me? School. Friendship. A sense of meaning and understanding in the world. Emptiness. I could think of a few people who care and show concern for me, but at the heart of it, I do not think happiness could ever really come. No life suits me wholly. People agree and make jokes as they will, and they entertain me and lighten the mood, but I do not think they take me seriously. Maybe they see what they want to. I do not think it even applies anymore, but I would like to be a part of something. I find myself, too often, pensive and gray. When the clouds are over my head, I write, or I seek out others, or I immerse myself in something completely. My writing is filled with clouds, it's true, but it is only that I want to make something out of my time, and I see something beautiful in what I create too. There is nothing wrong with that. No one will criticize me for filling my writing with sadness. It is not the sole emotion I feel, but it is often the one I write about. Most dramatists are either tragedians or comedians. The ones that write both often show a stronger talent in one over the other. I never consciously chose to pursue one genre, but it is clear what I feel more strongly about.