There is one thing that I am most of afraid of--an incorrigible, irascible fear that lurks into my thoughts, an incubus that envelops my every whim--it's a fear of being forgotten, the fear of not having a name. Ah! But now you're probably wondering, well, this person sounds like John Proctor--"Because it is my name! Because I cannot have another in my life! Because I lie and sign myself to lies! Because I am not worth the dust on the feet of them that hang! How may I live without my name? I have given you my soul; leave me my name!"
Maybe so, but there is one thing I hope to achieve and that is when I come to my death bed, I don't want to be remembered as just another number, as just another cookie cutter mold, another human. There is more to life than that. It's just finding where all the pieces fit is the hard part.
So, what do I plan on doing here? No clue yet. Maybe one day an idea will spawn from some downright awesome epiphany. Or not. Such is life.
Feb 19
“ My world falls apart, crumbles, “The centre cannot hold.” There is no integrating force, only the naked fear, the urge of self-preservation. I am afraid. I am not solid, but hollow. I feel behind my eyes a numb, paralysed cavern, a pit of hell, a mimicking nothingness. I never thought. I never wrote, I never suffered. I want to kill myself, to escape from responsibility, to crawl back abjectly into the womb. I do not know who I am, where I am going—and I am the one who has to decide the answers to these hideous questions. I long for a noble escape from freedom—I am weak, tired, in revolt from the strong constructive humanitarian faith which presupposes a healthy, active intellect and will. There is nowhere to go.
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