The Making of a Poet

Hello, my lovely world. How beautiful and varied is your wardrobe.

I understand more things than last time I posted. Take nothing but pictures, leave nothing but footprints is a clear vision in my head. You have deposited a tick onto my skin and it's taken some of me down the toilet.

It is sad, how we've ruined your garments. A (blood-or-oil)stain here, a (mine-or-grave)tear there.

This is always a difficult time for me, the season between spring-and-summer. Everything is growing, blooming, awakening around me, but it is a sort of unwilling tradition that I regress into a depressed mood.

Ha! I laugh at my incoherent, meaningless thoughts. Pah. I laugh in the face of my procrastination and weaknesses. Let them lay there, like a DOG.

Some days, like this one, I wonder if there isn't something wrong with me. However dramatic and utterly cliched this is sounding, it persists in my mind.

In fact, I am growing surer of it every week.

I want to go see a psychologist and hear their thoughts, but I worry what my family will say to me. I...

Oh! I just want someone to understand, just a little bit. I know that most people do, or whatever, and I don't care really what they think or even what they do eventually say, but someone who understands is priceless.

Perfectionism is a terrible drought.

My thoughts don't make much sense, do they? It's alright, I believe, in the end.

We went to see Angels and Demons, and the beauty of it made my eyes water. I don't care. I don't care that Catholics aren't born again or WHATEVER. They are beautiful people.

It is a sad state of affairs, but I love a quote.

"Science tells me God must exist. My mind tells me I will never understand God. And my heart tells me I am not meant to."

My father is scolding us, because he has just found out, after we went to see it, that it was written by Dan Brown. We should not support him, he says.

I think differently.

I am not exactly certain how to express my different thoughts, but they are there.

It is funny, how life goes on and each day teaches us lessons.

Another funny thing, what I've recently been thinking. Maybe marriage isn't all its cracked up to be, for me. The Fish and I had this conversation the other day, about how maybe marriage wasn't for her, and I've been thinking and watching people, and maybe, just maybe..

It's not for everyone.

Oh, I hate arguing. I abhor it. Maybe that is also why. Friendship, carefully tended, can be argument-free. Marriage is...different.

Bleh.

I must go type a report on Angels & Demons now, for my aggravating, needs-to-prove-a-point father.

With all of the reports that I need to type, I need to type another one. This report, though, will be tough to type, because it will take all of me. All my beliefs, all my opinions, and all my soul-bearing.

I hate soul-bearing.

Unless no one will read it.

Oh. We went to Barnes&Noble after the movie and I flipped through a National Geographic book of photography. People are terribly beautiful.

Truly, terribly beautiful, and horribly aggravating.

I hate them. I love them. I cannot stand them and I daren't think about being apart from them.

My sanity depends on them, and I fear insanity because of them.

What a conflict my life is, in every way.

Socially, thoughtfully, sorrowfully conflicting.

There. There is my disease: in my indecision, confusion, and unshakable melancholy.

Poets are made from stuff like this.