In quintessential triviality for years in this fleshcase a shesoul dwelt.

i don't have very much will to write any more, and mostly overlook the maddening details.  (the devil is in the details.)  it is not necessarily of my choosing, but for medicinal purposes, i am functioning properly, and some would say, in a more healthy manner.  there once would have been a time where i'd report to you that today i saw a penmark engraved on the wall as i sat in grammar class marked 1-28-83 and realized that this very penmark was older than i.  or that i found graffiti on the sidewalk on the corner of n. greensboro and some other road, of a girl, hunched downward, as if in pain, and saw it like a bad reflection.  but it is not that interesting to me anymore; nothing is, except getting on.  i am not really what i was.  i am not sure i can be any longer, at least, not for now.  i can only hope to make it through until the end of my year.  i do not find any thoughts i have out of the ordinary, i do not find my passions straying, i do not find myself thinking of much except graduation, and finding a niche, and making a solid place for myself, and not wanting what i wanted.  in fact, it is more of wanting nothing, and feeling nothing, except anxiety and fear of solitude and of failure.  hopefully this is temporary, a patch until i graduate, and not a permanent solution, a holocaust of wills.  i do not want to have been replaced. i do not want to have been molded to fit a more practical run of life. 

the only saving graces are the people perched on rooves, reading mayan stories, performing body building calisthenics, telling me my poems are interesting, reading beat poetry and making up words and shouting and making me remember that once i really couldn't control my impulses either, and once i worked not entirely in a framework of schedule and allotment, and once, i wrote gushing self-indulgent long frothing poems too, and once i sang out wherever, and once and for all, i self-corrected, doubted, drew an end.

is it a disease? is what i have disease?  more importantly, is what they have disease? i do not think so.  it is merely deep, unebbing desire.  some are better than others at controlling it.  in addition, some are better at others at expressing it (i bring to mind the blond girl's superfluously long poem that would have been so much more powerful had it been trimmed for its potent lines)  but, after all, are we not all urged to individual fulfillment? and is working within limits the way to do it? or is stretching them?  i am reminded starkly of the psychopath, giggling at his violence, reading today, his round and peaceful glasses binding his searing eyes.

we shall see, in your cruel reflection, or in my pale reflection, who is selfish, who is a coward, you or me. or both.

my writing for now will be erratic.  i am not in the state of mind to write. but maybe they will prompt me to remember.