Monday, September 22, 2003


Somehow it’s weeks later. I’ve been merely existing. I get home from work late and turn on the television. It’s a strange sort of reality, but no less real those who know no other. How can I possibly tell anyone that all they see is an illusion? That they are slaves to the Vast Machine? That there is a larger truth? I'd be ostracized, fired, medicated. They think I’m strange enough for refusing to date. My broken heart is but a flimsy excuse. These men bore me. Kierkegaard said “Boredom is the root of all evil—the despairing refusal to be onesself.”

He also said, “There is nothing with which every man is so afraid as getting to know how overwhelmingly much he is capable of doing and becoming.”

It's just that I convinced myself that anything would be better than being alone. So far the results have been disappointing.


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