dispassionate bullshit
journal entries. 4th installment. (12/2 - 12/9 2024 — I'M NOT DOING WEEKLY ENTRIES ANYMORE)
§1.
Awoke, finished part one of Henry the Sixth by Shakespeare (amazing), worked out, ate, cleaned, folded clothes, and now I write this journal before the turning of the day (11:52 PM on 12/2) in a state of tiredness that one would think borders on delirium. Upon waking in a few hours, I would like to finish my notes on Henry the Sixth. I read, or rather, listened to a lot of prose and poetry today—Dumas for prose and Byron for poetry. I have recently been interested in trying something new in my journals—that is, writing these here entries in verse rather than prose. I find my art yearns for a break from prose and prolix sentences and rather desires great imagery, quick and dirty stanzas that get at the heart of my every thought.
I don’t know if what I do in verse has any merit—whereas with prose, at least I could say I’m trying; but in writing poetry, never do I find myself at home. I tend to think I am false and lying to my readers whenever I write as so, for I was never a natural romantic—no, I was much too refined and gentleman-like to lust after carnal passions or the losing of my senses in the revelry of sensual pleasures. But at the same time, I have reached a point in my life where that kind of austere, conservative Catholicism leads one to a dreadful rigidity—in which they become unable to affirm life; they rather become the naysayers of life Nietzsche warned about, those who live among the herd, those who care not for the overmen, those who, in short, act like they appreciate culture but in reality despise it with every fiber of their being—for they live lives that are completely antithetical to art, to creation, to passion, to yes-saying, in short, to life itself.
We are only to yearn for the greatness that is within us. Those who desire after things that are beyond what they are capable of are either impatient or imprudent. Those who desire after things within their capacity are wise. And those who desire after the impossible are either poets or madmen. The poet often is the one who makes the mundane seem magical, who enlivens the everyday monotony of repetition with a kind of fire or zest that is always to pluck the heartstrings of the mortal soul. But enough of my periods, dashes, semicolons, and commas—I want to write some poetry!
Am I the one who writes these lines while tired
Or rather do I speak from what the soul aspires
To tell me what it is I am to say
And hope to express all in a very fine way.
But it's so hard to maintain this consistency
When every line to a poet seems a kind of subsistency,
And often do I lapse into wretched thoughts,
Now I try to write with meter in mind,
Then toss aside those wretched restrictions thine,
Never to attempt again to write in such a way,
Only to yearn for the same exact thing the very next day.
And so, I contradict myself—
So be it, it matters not to me.
I care no longer for the need to follow what I’ve been told,
For I am no longer beholden to some teacher’s cruel demands,
Telling me I am to write about so-and-so, like such-and-such.
No, please, madam or ma’am, do not restrict my heart’s fiery passion!
Let my ideas flow, and watch them with me as it blazes,
And thus do I cause a fire to spread across the world.
Where all the epic tales and grateful odes
Mean little to me when compared to my own thoughts,
When I find within me a kind of hearty confidence
That I reluctantly call my own genius—
A kind of daemon which allows me no rest,
And which is constantly a pest,
Never seeking to be done with me
But always urging me on to learn,
To learn, to learn, to learn, and not to sleep,
To miss out on the grateful heap,
Where all my dreams shall pass away with me.
And where my many mortal thoughts
Do seem a kind of incantation—fraught
However, and beset with many grave difficulties,
Many of which I am unable to match or beat,
And so I give up and lapse into slothful heaps.
But soon do I find such an action too boring for me,
Recalling all the while I lay,
Those dreadful days of my youthful hate,
Where I was in a headless wastrel state,
Where my every limb was weak and sickly,
Too effeminate to be considered manly.
And thus did I give up the ghost on my past self,
And desired only from that moment forth
To become a man of some note and worth.
I told myself, too, from that day,
That I am here to stay,
And that I will leave a mark upon the world for all to say:
“This here is a man, a great man indeed,
Who has desired nothing more than to succeed.”
And I want nothing more than that in this world,
And if that means I have to continue down a hated path,
And if that means I have to fall many times upon my ass,
Then I shall get up each and every time
And brush off the dusty medallion—mine,
And curse those who spite my repetitious lines,
Those rapscallion poetic critics—unrefined,
Who care not for the feelings of my heart,
Who only get at the surface of my thoughts,
And who hate the fact that I repeat myself,
That my lines use too many of the same words,
That I seek to disrupt the status quo,
And that I am unafraid to argue those opinions that have been so long established.
This is true, and will always be so long as I desire people free,
To never pluck from a tree unless I pay a wretched fee.
No, down with the modern world and what it stands for,
If it could be said that it stands for anything at all.
I only wish to speak my mind with the vivacity of Byron,
And with the great freedom of Whitman.
I don’t require much for my happiness;
I only seek to write with a leaky roof above my head,
All the while a wench,
With copious rivers
That flow from her mouth,
May find a purpose
For all that wetness
Spilt upon my wretched tool.
But I begin to lapse into perfidious thoughts
And begin to hate myself for desiring what has been spelt.
So be it, though, for I do not hide my manly nature,
Rather I let it speak, for it comes from my very heart,
And the heart is where all great renditions lay,
The organ of which spurs my lustful ray.
And thus does the contemplation of so
Make one a very tired and happy foe.
I write this with cold hands, bare arms, and baggy eyes,
With a hunched back, an open book, and tea nearby.
My mind calls for rest, but my heart desires more lust,
More thoughts to feed its dirty thoughts,
Like coal to a fire that is open in the wind,
And where there be much oxygen
That constantly be consumed for fuel,
Thus becoming a great moral boost.
But seriously, I seek repose with my pillow on my bed,
And wish I may rest my weary, weary head,
If but to dream on those things I seek to write on,
Where their fulfillment may be glorious enough for all,
And where I find a stain—nightly emission spelled.
That is what I seek,
And thus do I wish
To make it become
A real reality.
§2.
I don’t quite know how to start this entry, in truth. It has been exactly eight days since I wrote my last entry, and I’m feeling a bit guilty about that, in all honesty. Although, I would say I have a valid excuse for not keeping up with this journal, and that is that I am in the process of writing a great commentary on Shakespeare—more or less giving my thoughts on humanity in the process.
It’s turning out to be quite the massive work, which isn’t what I originally intended for it; but, at this point, I should have known how prolific I am as a writer. Not taking into account my own powers has some very dire consequences, it seems. I feel really bad about not writing in my journal, again, but I would only say that that has allowed my work on Shakespeare to have been that much better, for more time was devoted to it.
I could go on and on in this entry, making up for all the days I’ve missed, but then this entry would be at least 5,000 words long, and I feel my writing powers currently aren’t up to such a task—especially considering I wish to go to bed already (it’s 4:24 AM as I write this).
So, let me just end by saying this, and this is really important: MY JOURNAL ENTRIES WILL NO LONGER BE WEEKLY. I don’t wish to force myself to write each day every week anymore. I suppose I could, considering I have already done so for three weeks previously, but I had not considered how I would bring that about should my schedule change, or should I give myself a particularly demanding project to work on.
Such is why my entries WILL FROM NOW ON BE MONTHLY. I think I’m well within my rights to do this as a writer, because, despite the fact that I am, indeed, a very prolific writer (churning out 2,500 words faster than most people could write down a grocery list), I need to give myself time to work on other things aside from my journals. I love writing them, but my interests are too scattered to focus solely on them.
In fact, I have focused only on them—after I finished my series of essays—but now I have given myself a task which demands more attention, which I am unwilling to give up just to write about the monotony of my day. I mean, what would I even say for such a garbage entry?
“I woke up, wrote on Shakespeare for 5–8 hours, exercised, showered, ate, wrote on Shakespeare until 11.” Hell no! Forget that. I’d rather not write an entry at all than scribble out a subpar one. Your entries are where you can be your freest as a writer, I like to think. They should always have something thought-provoking or intriguing in them, which instills a life principle or morsel of wisdom.
Then again, that’s probably my bias speaking on my behalf there, for I do like a very niche style of writing. God, that damnable word niche is so in vogue amongst writers today, I don’t even know what people are talking about when they mention it at this point.
“All writers need a niche in order to find their audience.”
I think this is trite garbage. Let your prose be your guide. Your readers will know what they like when they read it, and from there you can build up your audience. I don’t think this is something that can be compromised. Your own integrity as a writer is the most important thing you have. Lose that, and you just become a puppet, commanded to write only what your audience wants.
What even does it mean to be a writer at that point? You become no different from a political talking head at that point—and thus is the death of creativity and individuality. Writing is not meant to be dictated; it’s meant to be expressed from the heart, which is why I despise the way literature is taught in schools today—where you have to follow a rubric and write on themes picked by a teacher that coincide with state standards.
Fuck your standards. If I want to write like Carlyle or Goethe, I should be able to do so without detriment to my grade. I hate how, in America, everything is standardized and regulated beyond belief; this isn’t even mentioning the amount of jobs in the USA that are nothing more than administrative positions that actually contribute nothing to the actual productivity of the job. Just a place where white-collar workers have something to do instead of, you know, actually receiving payments from the government like in a real socialist utopia.
I’m just so confused at the whole system of life in America presently, and the closer January comes—the time I actually told myself to start looking for a job—the more discouraged I become with the so-called ‘real world.’ The ‘real world’ seems to me like nothing more than a place full of drudgery and idiocy on the highest scale imaginable.
What is there for me in the real world aside from unnecessary pain and misery? My goals and desires are not out with the herd. My goals and desires—which I cultivated openly and freely for the past four years—are with the intellectuals.
I at first wanted to write an encyclopedia in the style of Will Durant, inspired by the past attempts of humanity’s greatest polymaths like Francis Bacon and Thomas Browne. But after reading Emerson, I found that such a goal was futile if what you were seeking was wisdom and guidance as to what to do in life. Becoming knowledgeable in every human discipline will in no way provide you with a path to knowing which one you want to dedicate your life to—which to me seems like what should be the purpose of high school and college education.
Elementary school is more or less a place to keep the kids while the parents are at work, but it’s also the most important—it’s where foundational subjects like arithmetic and literature are taught, both of which are failing supremely. Middle school is where you get to pursue what it was you were good at in elementary school, more or less. You’re exposed to a wider range of subjects, and you’re taught the rudiments of adulthood more or less—punctuality, consistency, hard work, etc.
These things aren’t stressed in elementary school because the kids would not appreciate the lesson; they’re too immature for so aged a conception as consistency. High school, more specifically in 12th grade, is where America says you should have decided a path for your life. Isn’t it degrading and sickening?
An 18-year-old with at most two years’ work experience (that’s if they worked during school) is told to make a decision that shall more or less determine the course of their life. I find it the most backward and retarded system imaginable.
A 25-year-old shouldn’t be expected to know with complete surety what to do with the rest of their working life, let alone an 18-year-old. It’s a system that demands obedience and narrowmindedness—the exact opposite of a mindset that brings about cultural change and which allows for people to explore what it is they’re truly passionate about in life.
Granted, most of what people wish to become is either following the dictates of their parents or going along with the herd of mediocrity. I never understood the need to follow what others are doing. I never experienced this FOMO shit that psychologists push. I don’t even know what they’re talking about half the time.
If life is about finding what is most fulfilling and meaningful with the limited time you are given, you should strive to become what you wish. And if you cannot become what you wish, then become what you can given what you have acquired from striving after your wish.
People make themselves unnecessarily miserable in this world. They don’t realize that all those negative emotions and feelings of loss and regret are of their own doing because they followed a path they never cared about to begin with.
This has caused them some serious misgivings about their direction; and so they become depressed, envious, bitter, and resentful, and it serves them right. These people were too stupid—or smart, perhaps—to realize the truth of the matter: that life is short, misery is long, and alleviation few and far between.
The only antidote to misery is to do that which you find most fulfilling. You have to strive after what calls your name, what you cannot live without. I know my laments and prognostications are geared more towards the artist and free spirit than the common man—the individual who's never heard of Dostoevsky or Dumas before; but I don’t give a shit about the common man. His ideals are too practical: he only wants a job that allows him to move up the social ladder and support his family—noble, but as a 22-year-old with no intention of starting a family of my own, I couldn’t give two shits about what the common man desires. His laments and anguishes are not mine.
Besides, he’s too boneheaded to understand what I want out of life—which is ironic because his misery is caused by the most base and innocuous shit ever. Idiot only worries about putting food on the table. Come complain to me when you’ve got real problems. I’m over here hunched over my keyboard like a fucking rat, on the verge of starvation, and I’ve gotta hear the complaints of a man who at least has the utilities running? GTFO.
No, no, no! I’m fucking done with this bullshit. The pitiless quack world deserves what it’s got coming to it. Mass anarchy, revolutions, uprisings—when the common man is no longer willing to be trampled on for the sake of their security. They’re trying to see how much we will let them take from us, that’s what they’re doing. We’re like test rats to them—mere guinea pigs. They’re trying to find the golden mean between exploitation and toleration.
Give them too much, we lose profits. Take too much, they start striking. There is a very fine line that has not yet been crossed within the social dynamics field; but I fear, with the continuing insolvency of some people, the wretched penury they find themselves in, living hand to mouth, in the most miserable, miserly state ever, they will start to desire nothing but change. And at once, does one see the signs and protests: “We want change, eat the rich, hang the CEOs!” This is what I see in the future.
Now, it would be nice if I could be like Nietzsche here for a second and have my every prophecy be confirmed, but that is asking for too much. Firstly, because I’m nowhere near as smart as Nietzsche; and second, the world order shall remain stable so long as flourishing for the majority becomes the priority (which may occur prior to the need for any revolution).
The world, like the stock market, can never be predicted with 100% accuracy. It can only be estimated and approximated given present conditions and similar circumstances. But even these are subject to change, and so predicting anything becomes more or less a fool’s errand. The only way to make truly accurate predictions is to be so vague in what is said that it can be interpreted any way you wish—therefore confirming and denying every single suspicion imaginable.
But enough about the world order, and enough with this wild goose chase of a rant.
Dear God, looking back at this, this doesn’t even seem like a journal entry, but rather the ravings of some psych patient who's off his meds. Judging from this writing, you may as well place me with the Mangiones, Kaczynskis, and Breiviks of the world. Actually, I’m better than those retards. I actually know my limits and what the consequences of my actions will be. I’m more like a Marx, Hitler, Wagner, or Nietzsche. I’m a man of ideals but no action.
Kaczynski, without doubt the smartest of the three mentioned, was a man of action and ideals, but his ideals were twisted—he thought mass murder the only way to spread his message, which is patently wrong and insane. If you want to inspire the world with your particular cockamamie ideology and values, you civilize yourself first, and you do one of the two following:
Start a religion or cult (with your own theology, philosophy, and everything—like Jesus or Muhammad); or
You start either a YouTube channel or media company in which you can gather a massive enough following so that you can actually brainwash people with your wild ideas.
Anything else is either vain or will take too long to see to fruition. You need exposure to get known. You need people to see that you’re serious about your convictions.
Why do you think the moment portable cameras were made available, Muslim extremists started decapitating infidels, reciting hadiths and passages from the Qur’an, and uploading them to the internet? Why do you think Joseph Goebbels was so fond of the radio? Why do U.S. presidents since 1960 try to appear more often on televisions?
This whole world is absorbed in the self-image of the individual. It’s almost a Freudian point I’m trying to make. We like visuals, and we like people to prey on our biases and presuppositions—we like to be understood, and nothing is more pleasurable than to be confirmed in your affirmations about the world.
It’s a high that these pundits are relying on to grip your attention for no other reason than to subconsciously influence you. It’s a ridiculous thing we humans do; so quick we are to give up our most powerful faculty, just to have another tell us what to believe rather than question what it is we receive.
I’m so sick of the infighting between political parties. I’m sick of people arguing over things that are really non-issues in the grand scheme of things. And I’m beyond sick (yeah, sick isn’t even the right word to use here) of being told how I should live my life based on the value judgments of a moron who doesn’t have—and never will have—my experiences.
They think that by repeating a message enough times, you will actually just grow accustomed to it and accept it passively—that’s really what they want if you’re not one to buy their bullshit outright.
These people are shameless and have no qualms lying if it means maintaining a false stability or order—or worse still, if it means the repression of an ideology, a phantasy of a boogeyman, that they think is harmful; when in reality, their hateful rhetoric couldn’t be any more dangerous than it already is.
God, I despise these people with such a strong passion: I may actually hate them more than I do those garbage-ass life coach grifters and finance influencers. Those people are the scum of humanity and deserve nothing more than to be burnt in boiling excrement.
But back to me and my ideals. I know what my limits are because I ultimately know what I want out of life, which is really the whole point of it, wouldn’t you agree? I have already talked about the needless misery people put themselves under; the diabolic economic situation we find ourselves in currently; the general lack of standards in media, which more or less poisons the minds of an entire populace for no other reason than infighting—just so the rich can get richer and the poor can stay poorer.
I mention all this bullshit, the chicanery of modernity, merely to say this: that it can be overcome; you just have to have a reason to keep going. That is the goal I spoke about earlier. This is the life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness that Thomas Jefferson spoke of in the Declaration of Independence. The goal is that which drives you every morning to get out of bed: your reason for existing, so to say. As Nietzsche famously said, “He who has a why can bear almost any how,” and the same applies.
The chicanery of modernity can all be overcome; you simply need a way of framing your life in a way that makes it superior to whatever problem or issue you find yourself in presently. That is the essence of resilience and endurance in the face of so many of life’s vicissitudes. Are you the wanderer? The lost soul? The free spirit? The one without a purpose? Give yourself something to do, and you shall have all the gates of the world open before you with ease.
This is not to say the path is all easy the moment you find a goal; the key is consistency and steadfast perseverance. You cannot get through life without struggle. Humanity was made to endure and struggle through the worst of it. I mean, we evolved over millions of years by having nature kill us in every conceivable way billions upon billions of times.
We are, quite literally, the tail end of a natural experiment that is still occurring as we speak—constantly evolving, ever-changing with each new experience. Why should we not hope to have flourishing and peace be universal amongst mankind? Is this idea too idealistic? Well, I don’t care if it is because, at the end of the day, that’s the only kind of message I want promulgated across the whole globe.
As I said already, America makes me sick to my stomach: with our tribalism, our lack of care for education, our complete disregard for the arts and humanities, our lack of universal health care, our lack of an affordable college education (which is made a requirement, more or less, for a decent living nowadays), the inability to move up the social ladder through hard work alone, the inability to start a family, the inability to reduce our debts, the inability to afford emergency funds, the almost guaranteed bankruptcy should you suffer a health crisis without insurance, the inability to pay off our mortgages, the lack of empathy between those who suffer and those who are well-off, the political polarization, the inability to achieve the American Dream anymore, and, in sum, the general hypocrisy of it all.
I don’t know what else to say aside from this: remain hopeful, so long as you have a reason to keep going. That is all.