18/10/2001 - 8:04 p.m.

Methods of Madness

Well, somebody make a note of the date- for the first time, one of those sappy e-mail forwards made me cry. Yeah, me. I cry at nothing. Extreme mental anguish, Where the Red Fern Grows, and Moulin Rouge. And now, this. It wasn't even anything new, I've probably read it a hundred times, but, ah geeze, I don't know.

Thinking about it, it's probably just what tipped off the mental anguish. Somebody once said that writers have to suffer for their work. F. Scott Fiztgerald (yes, I know, I'm obsessing, and well, damn it, I don't care!) conciously lived a lifestyle that would look good on paper. I guess that's why I write all these things. I've got diaries that go back to age 10. Two years later I go from filling up one tiny hardbound book to having filled up at least one (but often two) unadulterated 70 page college ruled notebook every year (140 pages of my tiny handwriting), and now I've got 40 entries here in addition to all the other I've got. Apparently I desire a written record of the miserableness of my life, because of course, when things are going well, there's very little to say. The basis of any good story is conflict, and when you've got a good story, you can write it down.

At the same time, I have to write. I can't not write. It's just who I am, I never say what I mean when I talk: I lie awake at nights editing my conversations from the day.

One of the reasons that I think mankind is so involved with communicating his sorrows to others is so that he knows that he's not alone. It's like in Red Badge of Courage, it's not a very great book, but the one thing I remember about it: the guy wants to know that someone else is scared of war too. He doesn't want to feel like he's all alone. No one wants to go around carrying some awful thing and feeling like they're the only one suffering, so they tell someone else, they get it out there so that maybe somebody will say, "Yeah. We all feel like that. It's OK." Maybe even if we know it, we still want justification. Then, we all learn that we are not alone, and from that, we can make intelligent decisions as to the manner in which we ought to pursue life.

This is, of course, the very manner in which social standings come into existance, and the very thing I rail against in most forms. How funny. I guess that I'm going for the mental instead of the physical- I'd rather know that somebody else thought I made sense (to let me know that I don't need to be committed) than that I dressed like them (so I'm not attacked by the fashion police). I'm not afraid of the fashion police, but I'd like to stay off mind altering drugs- if at all possible. (And I know I've been lucky so far.)

I don't know where all that just came from. I'm not certain what it all means, but I don't want to start over.

Of course, regular readers know that this means I've had a shitty day. Well, that's my fault. This morning, it had been four days since a proper meal, two days of homework due today, and all of the normal additions that make my life so exciting.

I'm too focused on doing the best everywhere, and it's not happening. I need to decide that something isn't worth worrying about. Well, Festival and school mean that whole future thing I was talking about a couple days ago, so those can't go. If I cop out on either show, I'm letting down a lot of people- a whole lot. Thespians especially. If anything, I've been relying too much on Phoebe. We need to have officer meetings. We need to return to that vision that looked so great in August.

Hmmmm, that would be everything going on in my life. That would be nothing that I can cut out on. This whole writing thing is it that I could get rid of, and I can't do that. It's, and this sounds awful, but it's my link to humanity. I can write and read other people's things, and then answer mail, and it reminds me of the real world out there.

I kinda sorta overheard something todya, and it's one of those horrific instances in which I realise that grown-ups have problems too.

I want out of my house. I want to escape from the life in which I live. "Sometimes the things you most wish for, are not to be touched." -Soundheim Into the Woods