18 December, 2002

A Nightmare To Remember

I had to have been less than seven at the time, though I don't recall exactly what age I was. All I remember is that I was quite young -- maybe four or five years old.

I had just woken up, and the house was flooded. Water surrounded me, and I felt scared. The water was rising, slowly and methodically. Soon, it was high enough to lift my bed, and I found myself floating upon my bed through water that was freezing to the touch. 

I grabbed something nearby to use as an oar, and I rowed outside of my room. It was then that I saw both my father and my mother floating in separate pieces of furniture, being pulled faster and faster by the current beneath the waves. They were asleep, supposedly unaware of the danger they were in, and I felt it to be my duty to save them. I began rowing in their direction as hard as I could. 

Soon, I saw a third piece of furniture graced by my uncle Mike -- no sweeter sight had I by then seen! -- and he rowed toward my parents and I, intent upon saving us all. 

But then, unexpectedly, my father and my mother started to drift in opposite directions. My uncle and I would have to split up in order to save them from impending doom. "I will go after your father, Eric!" Mike called out to me. "Row as hard as you can to save your mother!" 

I nodded to him, strangely unable to speak at the moment(because of fear, perhaps?), and I put my utmost effort into catching up to my mother, who still was beyond my reach by some two or three meters yet. 

But then (oh! the agony of retelling it!), without logic and devoid of all sanity, my mother started to drift into a women's restroom! I was horrified! Oh, how I hurried to catch her before she entered, but alas, I was too slow. ... I was too late. 

How could I save her now? She had gone into that ultimate of all no-man's lands: the lady's restroom. I was heartbroken. I tried screaming for help, but it was to no avail. Not only did my voice not work, but whom could come even if I did cry out? She was the only female in the house. 

I wanted to wail with despair, but the tears would not come, and my voice remained silent. I cried internally until the nightmare was over and I woke up. 

I can remember how scared I was, sitting up in my bed that night, thinking upon the horrifying dream I had just had. I can recall wondering why I had not awoken at the scariest part -- why did I have to wait until I had tried to cry but couldn't before I left that dream world? 

I was scared, and I was sad. 

Since that time, I've had scarier thoughts, and I've had sadder thoughts. But I never again had a nightmare of that intensity. 

It was a nightmare that I will never forget.

14 December, 2002

Truth Versus Privacy

I received an e-mail from my father recently. He said that he has been enjoying reading my online diary. He hasn't seen much of me ever since he moved to Miami, but I think the presence of my journal online is of some comfort to him. It makes the distance not quite so distant. (The same, of course, is true for other readers of my diary. You know whom you are.) 

Anyway, my father had an interesting subject on his mind when he e-mailed me, and I'd like to address it here. 

He writes that "the more successful you are, the more enemies you will encounter in your life." This is, of course, entirely true. After all, in a capitalistic economic system, one cannot gain without someone else experiencing a loss. It's a zero-sum game.
Because of this, he writes that it is not "wise that you question things that are confusing from your point of view and someone that does not know you could assume the worst of you." Again, his point is entirely and completely valid here. By leaving a public record in the form of a journal available to anyone who does a google search on "Eric Herboso", I am making it exceedingly easy for my future enemies to be privy to sensitive knowledge that most would consider to be quite private. Indeed, everything I write here in this journal and on my website could very well hurt me in ten years, if someone wanted to use this knowledge against me. 

My father summarized his position quite well toward the end of his letter, saying that "Writing is the window to your soul....share your wisdom but be very careful about some subjects that might be used later on against you." 

Needless to say, I'd given this quite a lot of thought. After all, logically speaking, my father is right. No matter how one looks at the matter, you cannot get around the fact that giving priviledged information so very freely is not exactly the best way to go about things if one intends to be truly successful in life, as I do. 

And yet, even as I type this, one has to acknowledge the other side of the equation... One cannot simply dismiss the ideal of truth at all costs. You cannot just ignore the alluring concept of becoming completely and utterly open, sacrificing oneself to the opinions of society as a whole. 

You see, I made this diary so as to have a truthful outlet for my soul. But is the presence of a truthful outlet worth the giving of sensitive information into the public domain? 

My father seemed not to think so at first, though he later retracted his statement, saying that he now feels it is better "to express yourself any way you see fit." He even says he admires my courage for doing such a thing. 

But despite his turnaround, I still have to wonder. For you see, doing what I am doing here truly does require courage. The only thing is... well... I wonder if I have the courage to do this. I mean, can I really afford to be allowing myself the pleasure of writing whatever I feel? 

Sure, it feels great to be able to sit and write to no one in particular about whatever I so choose, but is doing this really worth the hassle that may present itself in ten or so years when I am in a position to have numerous enemies? 

Perish the thought. Yet it won't die. Somehow, in some way, the opposing ideals remain. The first is such a wonderful ideal: truth at all costs. And the second is so very logical: privacy to limit my future enemies' weapons against me. 

I am torn. (Not Tom.) 

And it is on this issue that I'd like to hear a little feedback, if anyone has anything to say. Is it better for me to be truthful? Or is it better to maximize my chances for success? I have already made my decision, but I would like to hear others' opinions anyway, just to see what other people think.

Winter Nights (Or Is It Fall?)

Yesterday, I took a trip to Bellingrath Gardens. 

It was cold, but not very. I easily got away with weaing only a short-sleeved shirt, and only thought about the cold whenever a particularly harsh wind blew by. However, everyone else there was wearing layers upon layers of jackets... 

I used to be like them, you know. It used to be that I just couldn't handle temperatures like that. But ever since I took that extended trip up north and learned what it really meant to be cold, I realized that the coldest temperatures down here in Mobile, Alabama, are really not that cold after all. 

(BTW, I saw a very uncommon occurrence about a week ago -- a tree turned yellow and lost its leaves to the ground below it... I guess what we call Winter down here is more like Fall for most Northerners.) 

There were Christmas lights everywhere at Bellingrath... At first, I thought it was quite beautiful, but after a few moments, I realized how much the lights were truly distracting from the actual view that I came to see: the gardens. 

But it wasn't a complete waste. After all, I not only got to look at all of the numerous couples walking absurdly fast through the paths and commenting on how "gorgeous" and "amazing" the lights were (these are phrase I actually overheard), but I also was able to find a restricted section of the gardens that gets cordoned off at night due to a lack of electric lights in the vicinity. It was very dark there, especially with my glasses being of the tint that they are, but it was this very absence of electric lights that made it so very beautiful. 

It was an absolutely stunning view. 

I'm glad I went to Bellingrath Gardens yesterday... The trip was well worth itself. (Note to self: you should go there more often, you know.) 

My last final exam was on Tuesday, earlier this week. Since that time, I've enjoyed my newfound freedom of sleeping whenever I choose. For the most part, I've resumed my old habit of sleeping during the day and living life throughout the night. I very much prefer the night, you know. It is a very peaceful time, and it is much better just for the fact that almost no one else is around when it's late at night. 

Does anyone else love taking walks in the dead of night whils others are sleeping? Sometimes, it seems as though I am the only one, for no one else is ever outside when I take such walks. Then again, what am I complaining for? If everyone liked such walks, then they would no longer be desolate, and they would certainly lose much of their appeal. 

Bah. I'm just rambling to no purpose now. 

But then again, this is my journal, and so I have that right to pointless rambling, now don't I? 


I miss school already, and I only just got out. Now I have to wait until January eighth...

09 December, 2002

Am I Becoming Normal?

Wow... What a productive day I've had thus far... 

I took my literature class exam at nine am this morning, and I have my calculus exam this afternoon at two pm. But this is of no real importance compared to what else happened today. 

You see, as of today, I have a legal tag on my car, and I'm insured for liability. 

You may not find this to be that big a deal, but to me, it is a huge step towards the real world. 

You see, prior to now, I've been using a dealer tag on Machiavelli, and I've been driving without insurance of any kind. In fact, I didn't really own the car. 

But now, I'm legal. Now, if a cop stops me, I don't have to bullshit my way out of it; instead I can just produce the legal valid documents that he requires and everything will be okay. 

It's a really weird feeling. 

I feel like I almost want to get stopped now, just to prove that I will get no ticket from it. I feel... strong. 

And yet, this just takes me one more step towards normalcy. 

I wonder, is it right for me to feel proud that I am finally acceding to the laws held by most of the common folk? Is it righteous for me to feel good about becoming more like everyone else? Or am I mad, in a sane sort of way? Have I become what I hated most, or is this what I really desired all along? 

I am torn. 

And yet, this is only the half of it. You see, as of today, I am immunized against those diseases which I never would have gotten anyway. Weird, ain't it? Me, of all people, getting immunized. Who'd've thunk it? 

'Tis a steady acquiesence of what I never wanted, and yet it makes me feel better all the same. If everyone else is okay with it, then why shouldn't I be? ... Oh, God, did I just type that? Ugh. 

I feel disjointed today. More so than usual, anyway. Nothing of what I'm writing likely makes any sense, and at the moment, I truly don't care. I don't want to proofread today. I don't want to bother. I don't even want to hit the "save" button. But I will. Of course I will. How can't I? 


I am tired. I think I will go eat now. 

That and I'll study too. 


Yeah, right.

08 December, 2002

Why I Listen To Music

I had twenty-two hours of sleep last night. 

I have three more final exams, but I'm not worried about them. At least not compared to how I was worried about my theology final; thank God I got that out of the way. 

Anyway, at this point, I'm supposedly studying for my finals tomorrow. I even have my book open, and I actually look at it every few minutes or so. But no true studying is going on. Rather, I am sitting here typing in my journal and chatting with my friends. 

Anyway, AngelGorge asked me a few questions for his anthropology paper, and I thought it might be relevant to put here. 

Angelgorge: Why do you listen to music?
Eric J Herboso: That depends on which music I'm listening too. Most often, I listen to instrumental big band jazz, and I do so as background music. I prefer the feelings that come from music than the silence that otherwise is present.
Angelgorge: Does music make you feel things? What does it make you feel?
Eric J Herboso: Again, it depends on the music. There are some songs that just naturally provoke emotion, and given a sufficiently talented composer, any emotion at all can be evoked.
Eric J Herboso: Also, sometimes I can associate feelings with music, even if the music itself did not innately cause me to feel such an emotion.
Angelgorge: Is music a spiritual experience for you?
Eric J Herboso: I dislike the term spiritual. But I would say that music causes me to feel things that I cannot adequately describe in languages as vulgar as English. It takes the language of music to explain the nature of music.
Angelgorge: Can you define "spiritual"?
Eric J Herboso: That depends on the definition of 'define'. I can give a dictionary definition. I can say what it is in a sufficient enough manner to explain the concept to someone who is familiar with the concept and just doesn't know the word for it.
Eric J Herboso: But I can't define it to someone who has no concept of what 'spiritual' means. 


I meant to put something more on here tonight, but I have to go. I'll write later.

04 December, 2002

On The Relevance Of Minutiae

Ugh -- I hate my theology class. 

I mean, my professor, Father Harmless, is a wonderful teacher. I have learned quite a bit in his class (though not all that I've learned is the same as what he intended as the most important to be taught). And I really don't mind the idea of learning the history of the Christian church; unlike P, I find such histories interesting and relevant to know, even if only for the purpose of arguing with religious zealots for the fun of it. But must we go into such detail? 

I can understand having to know who Martin Luther was and what he did. But why should I have to know his date of death so precisely? Isn't knowing that he lived in the early to mid-sixteenth century enough? Why do I have memorize that he died in 1546 CE? Really, of what relevance is such precision when I have no interest in becoming a religious scholar? 

In chemistry class, my professor glosses over such very interesting details in quantum mechanics for the sake of not drowning the other students in loads of material that they have no use for. After class, he sometimes talks with me and teaches me much that I didn't previously know on the subject, simply because I'm interested, but notice that he does not force the same on his class. Why? Simply because it's not relevant for the other students to know such detail, no matter how fascinating I personally find that attention to detail to be. 

Still, I must say that I respect Father Harmless. He is an excellent teacher in his own right. Plus, his intentions are completely righteous if you take an objective perspective. After all, all teachers teach their classes as though every student were majoring in that particular subject, even when in actuality no students are. That's just how it works in institutions such as colleges. 


I recently received an IM asking me why I don't fix my grammatical/spelling mistakes in my diary entries. She also asked why I don't delete completely retarded notes that are left on my diary.
My answer was simple: I don't believe in changing the text I wrote, even if it was horribly mangled, nor do I believe in eliminating others' opinions, no matter how irrelevant they may be. 

It may be that I do so as a game for others... It is interesting to see when someone notices a mistake such major mistakes as when my subjects and verbs have different tenses, et al. It shows an attention to detail that I do not share -- I've just never been good at noticing everything in my surroundings. ::sigh:: 'Tis one of my many faults. 


Okay, now I'm just stalling. I was studying for my theology final exam -- really, I was -- but now I've gotten onto a tangent and have begun to ramble on, avoiding studying such uninteresting texts as Cyril's Mystagogical Catecheses... 

Oh, well. It's time to get back to my cram session, I guess.

What FOD Means To Me

{{note: FOD stands for 'Free Open Diary', where this entry was originally posted.}}

Last night, P and I went for a long walk across the golf course grounds. It was dark, and combined with my tinted glasses, it was tough to see things. But it was enjoyable nonetheless. 

I think what made it most interesting was the fact that P never ceases to amaze me. I mean, he is so very much himself -- it's almost as though I cannot imagine him being another person. Perhaps some would consider this a bad thing (even P himself might say so), but I think it is a very positive compliment. So few people are truly outstandingly unique in this world... And there is only one P. 

One of the subjects we discussed had to do with diaries. Of course, he reads mine on occasion, as does many people I know (and many more that I don't), and that fact brought something to my attention that I had not considered before. You see, when I informed him that I keep three diaries (the Celtic diary, the self-made diary, & FOD), he asked: "In which of them do you put your most private thoughts?" 

It surprised me that he would ask this, as I thought perhaps my intentions had been more clear; but apparently, I was wrong. Thus, I'd like to clarify my intentions right here and now, just so nobody is confused on this. 

I am writing this as a public diary, and I put here, without intended censorship, exactly what I feel like writing on any given day. I do not hold back here, and I most certainly do not ever lie in this of all places (though I may do so elsewhere, of course). 

If you are one of the many people who know me IRL and read an entry that you think contradicts something I said outside of my diary, then you have either caught me lying to you IRL or else you've found one of my many instances of cognitive dissonance. The words I use in this diary are more of what I am than any other aspect of my life. 

If you are one of the many people who don't know me IRL, then you are lucky. You get to experience whom I am in truth before seeing the exterior shell that surrounds my soul. I envy you. 

If I offend someone on this diary, it is not meant as a malicious attack, but rather as the truth of how I feel and/or think.
If I praise someone on this diary, then it is not empty praise; it is truth, plain and simple. 

If there is some aspect of my life that has not been written about in this diary, it does not mean that I am witholding information or that I find that aspect unimportant; rather, it is that I have yet to find sufficient time and enough ability to truly put what I truly feel on the matter here online. 

The diary that has my most private thoughts is this one. My other two diaries are still important to me, since they record my thoughts in physical form, but it is here, online and in full view of the public, that I write my innermost thoughts and feelings. It is here that I most honest and straightforward, and it is here that one can get the most perfect picture of whom I am. 

This is me. 

Take it or leave it.

C++ Final Exam

This morning, I woke up at 2:20 pm. Ordinarily, this is no big deal, but today I had a C++ programming final exam that started at two o'clock, so of course I was worried from the moment I first looked at a clock. 

I jumped, got in the shower for a total of perhaps thirty seconds, threw on some clothes, grabbed my good-luck pencil, and drove like a maniac to the campus. 

It was the first time in quite a while that I sped over the speed limit. Indeed, it is the first time I've ever driven Machiavelli over the speed limit since I first got him. 

When I got to campus, I noticed that someone was in my regular parking space. Of course, this is no big deal, but it struck me at the time, since I had this feeling that everything was going to go wrong after this. I vowed to make sure my lucky pencil didn't break, else I would really be screwed. 

I ran up the stairs and across part of the campus to attempt to show up at least less then thirty minutes late, but of course that wasn't going to happen. I showed up at 2:45. I had an hour and fifteen minutes to complete a two hour final exam. 

Dr. May allowed me the use of her book, since I didn't bring mine, and I sat down right away to get started on my test. In my head, I had two conflicting thoughts... 

You're going to fail! said one teeny voice. You dumbass! Of all the times to be late, you chose today! Truly, you are most retarded!

But I refused to listen to the squeaking pessimism. Instead, I told myself, It'll be okay, Eric. You're intelligent enough to do this. I have faith in you.

Tentatively, I looked down at the test to the very first question. 

Question 1:
Write a while statement that sums the digits 1-10 inclusive.

I do a doubletake, wondering what's up. Surely, I was handed the wrong test. This can't possibly the final exam, can it? I look to the next question, wondering what I will find... 

Question 2:
Write a for statement that sums the digits 1-10 inclusive.

Oh, my God, I think to myself. This has to be the Twilight Zone or something... I look at my lucky pencil, and start to direct my thoughts to it, in lieu of myself. Joy, can you believe this? After yesterday's lab exam that took four hours to complete? Is this test really as easy as it looks at first sight? Indeed it was. The questions were wholly ambiguous, and ridiculously easy.

I hesitated before starting the test, though. Did I really want to waste the use of my lucky pencil on such a retarded test? Within a few seconds, I had decided to go ahead and use it. My reasoning? I argued that so far the good luck was working, so why let it stop now? 

I finished the test in fifteen minutes. 

When I was done, I stuck around, not wanting to leave so very soon. Everyone else was still there, busily writing away. They all looked so very studious. 

Sheep, a familiar voice in my head rings. They are nothing but sheep. 

And indeed, he is right. But even sheep serve a purpose, I remind the voice. After all, meat is still meat. 


Tomorrow is my theology exam. Wish me luck, 'cause I'm going to need it in there.

03 December, 2002

The Virtueless Girl

"The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing." -Socrates 

A tear rolls down my cheek as I look at her. She, like so many others, is ignorant of the fact that I am watching her. But her ignorance does not stop there. She lacks so many qualities: intelligence, beauty, persistence... And yet she strikes me, for when I look at her, I feel something strange. 

It is a hard thing to describe... This feeling is unlike others that I've had in the past. It is a feeling of pity, yet at the same time, it is awe. I feel almost as though I wish that I could be her, that I could live as she lives, in her shoes and not my own. I feel as though where she is preferable to where I am. 

And yet she disgusts me. 

She disgusts me because I see no good quality in her whatsoever. She is not just like every other common sheep out there, but is worse. She is a runt, misshapen in spirit, if not in body. When she talks, it is worse than if she were vacuous -- no, she talks as though she thinks herself intelligent when it is so very obvious that she is not. 

Were I able to hate a person who did me no misdeed, she would be the one I hate. 

But when I ask Garacan what he thinks of her, his reply is that she does indeed have a saving grace. His reply is that I overlooked one simple yet very telling good quality of her person. 

Garacan says she is kind. 

And now that I look again, seeing what I saw before, I notice that he is right. She is kind. She volunteers in many organizations, and she always lends an ear to any that needs to talk. She is courteous and giving, and her charity seems to know no bounds within her meager means. 

"But," I say to Garacan, "although she may be kind as you say, she still possesses no redeeming qualities." Garacan tilts his head and raises one eyebrow slightly, confused at this response. "Kindness is a vice, not a virtue." 

Garacan scowls as he retorts, quoting whom but the leader of his cause: "We must be kind, Eric, to everybody around us. We must accept and forgive -- there is so much to be forgiven in each one of us. If you learn to love everything, the humblest, the least, the meanest, then the meanest in you will be loved. Then we'll find the sense of universal equality, the great peace of brotherhood, a new world, Eric, a beautiful new world..." 

I look at Garacan, and I see in his eyes that he really and truly believes in what he says, and another tear forms. Garacan does not disgust me. He saddens me. He saddens me because he does not see what I see. He does not see his own fallacy. 

But I cannot leave him be without at least attempting to help him. "Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure." His eyes show a glimmer of understanding, but they quickly fade as I continue on, quoting ~Myrth~, another diarist here at FOD. "It is our light -- not our darkness -- that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, 'who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous?' Actually, who are you not to be. Your playing small doesn't serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that others won't feel insecure around you. We are born to manifest the glory that is within us. It is in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give others permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others." 

By the time my mini-speech is done, Garacan has already stopped listening to me. He has already closed his mind to the very concept, and remains staunch in his belief. "Eric," he says tiredly, "shouldn't you be studying for your final exams?" 

"Yes, I should." I take a sip of tea as I turn to look at Garacan, removing my attention from that of the virtueless girl. "But I find it more important to sit here with you, Garacan. You are my friend and confidant, and it hurts me to let you go without hearing the truth." He turns to face me as well, and we share a brief moment of silence together. When it is over, we both finish our tea in silence and get up from our seat. It is time to study now, and if we don't get it done now, then we won't do well on the exam tomorrow. 

As we walk in tandem, whistling in that grey shroud of nocturnal elegance, a shooting star flies by overhead. And somehow we both know that it is her, the virtueless girl, that has made this star pass overhead tonight. And we -- no, I -- realize something important: 

It is the bourgeois institutions that God truly favors. The meek may inherit the Earth one day, but when they do, watch and see whom will rise to the top of society. 

I thank God that I am an atheist, for if I were not, then I would hate myself even more.

I think I'll go study now.

02 December, 2002

A Lack Of Confidence

Well, final exams have finally arrived. 

Strangely, I don't feel confident that I will do well, despite the cognizant knowledge that of course I will. After all, I always do well in my classwork, except when I don't put in my best effort. I imagine I will pass every test with flying colors, and yet still I feel this unease. 

I hesitate to say that I am an unconfident person, despite my lack of confidence in this one area. On the contrary, I honestly believe myself to have the opposite problem; I consider myself better than most other people. It's a problem that I wish I could fix -- I don't want to feel better than others -- but it just comes naturally. Often, a thought will pass through my head that obviously carries the connotation that I am better than others in nearly every way. Whenever that happens, I scold myself for it, but it happens no less due to the scolding. 

So when I say that I am used to feeling super-confident, I truly mean it. Whenever I enter a contest, I always have full confidence that I will win that contest. Whenever I start a new job, I always have full confidence that I will become the best employee that has ever worked at that job. Whenever I do just about anything, I always have full confidence that I will do it better than anyone else attempting it. 

And you know what? I'm nearly always right. 

I've only lost three contests out of the dozens that I've entered with the intent to win first place. I've only had one job where I didn't win special awards, honors, and sometimes multiple raises within the first month of working there. 

Maybe this is due to me picking jobs I know I'm good at and entering contests I know I can win. This is certainly a very valid way of looking at it -- indeed it is probably the best explanation for this phenomena. 

But the point is that I never waver in my belief. It's just not in my nature. 

And yet... 

...Ever since I started college, I've had doubts of my ability. 

You can even see proof of this by looking back to my earlier entries... Even though I really haven't had any problems with my experience here at Spring Hill College, I've always felt... well... a bit behind. 

I mean, I probably have one of the top five grades in each of my respective courses, and I know that I understand the material better than anyone else in any of my classes (save religion, of course), but still I cannot help but feel... behind. 

No, that's not quite right. 'Behind' is not the best word for it. But I don't know what is.
It's not that I feel I don't know the material. God knows I know the material well enough.
It's not that I don't think I'm going to do well on the tests. Of course I'm going to do well on my tests.
... So I say that I feel... behind. 

I feel like I should be light-years ahead, but I'm not. In high school, I knew more than most of my teachers. But here, I don't. 

And it makes me nervous. 

I think Dr. Schaub recognizes this. On my last paper, she gave a grade somewhat lower than it would have been if she had thought someone else had written it. She recognized that I could do better than what I turned in, and she graded my paper accordingly. I respect her for this. 

Incidentally, she wore something different today. She was wearing a woman's style of suit, of all things. While the suit itself was very nice, and although I would have thought any other woman wearing it would have looked quite beautiful in such an outfit, for her I was disappointed. I was spoiled, I guess, by her other far more beautiful outfits, and so this ordinarily brilliant suit looked positively bland in comparison. I wonder if she would respect me for this analogous impression...

The Concept Of True Love

Laguna y Julia... Rinoa y Seifer...

I find myself questioning love itself.
Rinoa found out Seifer was alive, and when Squall said he might have to kill him, what was her response?
Julia loved Laguna, yet fell for Caraway at the drop of a hat.


I miss Trent. Not the Trent I knew... The Trent of legend. The Trent from third grade. But... that Trent is gone. No, it is worse: Trent never was.

C'est amor.

To tell the truth, it scares me. Well, everything scares me, but this in particular really scares me.

But it gets worse. You see, I find myself doubting even in but the possibility of love. I pray for P, yet look at what happens to me.


I am trapped. It is like AngelGorge said: "To be truly free, one must not understand the concept of being free." I can never love, for I feel like I do love. Indeed, love cannot exist while the possibility of the comprehension of love is imaginable.

The only true love is that of a baby.

Or a rock.

The following is quoted from my Celtic Diary, dated September 10, 2002:

Why am I like this? Why do I scare so easily? Why does my stability feel so unstable? Like I'm constantly experiencing a mild earthquake.
Sisyphous... Only I refuse to let it fall all the way. I will keep myself sane, else my life is forfeit.


I'm sorry for the cryptic entry today... I don't expect anyone to actually understand this but me. But thanks for reading anyway.
Note to self: this is what happens when you write entries and you're too tired to think clearly enough to express yourself understandably. Next time, don't let this happen, or else this diary will turn into nothing more than unintelligible mumbo-jumbo.

29 November, 2002

A Thanksgiving Horror Story

I like cheesecake. 

I spent Thanksgiving with my family. It was a horrid affair; I positively abhorred the whole event. I say this because my family is far too critical for my tastes. Not with me, thank God, but with people in general. If you thought I was intolerant, then you should hear them. 

"Where they went wrong is when they stopped letting kids pray in schools. That's when all that evil stuff started happening in schools, y'know."
This was the comment that started my disgust. I so very much wanted to take up for freedom from religion, but I restrained myself. After all, they are my family, after all. I should not burn bridges for the sake of a cause that cannot be achieved by me in the space of one night. I may be many things, but one thing I am not is a martyr. 

But the topic of conversation soon got progressively worse and worse... And what was bad was that they thought they were being quite tolerant about all of it! It was quite unbelievable. They would sit there at the table, bashing homosexuals and african-americans, but they would denounce harsher citiques of those same groups -- so to them, they were being quite tolerant after all. 

It was disgusting. 

So disgusting, in fact, that although they had cheesecake available to eat, I dared not get up to get myself a slice, for fear that if I moved in the least bit I would draw enough attention to myself for them to ask me my opinion on the subject. And I know that if I had been asked, I would not have lied; I would have told all of them what I think of them for saying such things, especially considering that there were children present in the very next room. Had I been asked my opinion, I likely would have never been invited to that house again, simply because of what I would have called everyone sitting at that accursed table. 

But thankfully, I said nothing. Thankfully, I simply sat there, quiet and unobtrusive, until it was time to go. 

::sigh:: Perhaps I just don't understand the concept of a family. I thought I did, long ago, but obviously I didn't. Then, later, I was almost taught what exactly a family is -- I nearly understood -- but I didn't quite. I just didn't grasp it. 

Which is it? A cake the day after Thanksgiving, or the day after Christmas Eve? Either way says something dreadfully important, even though I never considered such important in the least. But as I sit here in the near-darkness, I imagine that I am wrong, and that instead true importance lies within the bellies of such cakes, and it is celebration, not money, that makes the world go round. 

::sigh:: I hope I'm wrong. I hope that life is not just the logical beast I ascribe it to be. I hope that love serves a higher purpose, whatever that height may mean. I hope that Pandora's mistake will be rerecognized as more good than harm -- for it is hope alone that keeps me alive these days. 


I am so retarded.

25 November, 2002

An Interview

So there I am, reading racist periodical literature on the couch in Carpe Diem, when I overhear two people meeting for the first time at the table beside me. 

One of them is a reporter for some paper that I hope is obscure (if not, then the public is really in trouble), and the other is a seemingly nice enough guy. The interviewee was dressed well enough, was articulate, drank tea, and had good manners. The interviewer reminded me of the typical interviewer stereotype you commonly see on TV. 

After their introductions, the interviewer went straight to business. His first question:
"Okay, so tell me about what it's like to be dead." 

It is this opening question that piqued my interest; I immediately turned the majority of my attention from the article on reparations I was reading to the interview going on next to me. 

"Well, first of all, I didn't know I was dead at the time. I thought I was still alive." 

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I mean, it isn't everyday that you overhear an interview, let alone one on a subject such as this. 

"God spoke to me, but I didn't know it was God. I just thought it was some guy." 

I actually had to refrain myself from laughing aloud. I don't mean to be prejudiced versus people with questionable beliefs; after all, I believe in true love, so how am I any different? But still, you have to imagine yourself in the same situation. 

But I think that what I overheard earlier today signifies more than what it seems at first. Today, as I recoiled at the thought that this guy really does believe all this stuff, I had to stop myself and ask: Am I fully understanding what this man thinks? 

I mean, what if he really and truly believes in what he's saying? Not just that he believes -- I mean he really believes. 

I mean, I can understand Gandhi. Even when he fasted, he did so for a purpose. And what he did worked, didn't it? You can't argue with results. I think I could make an argument for Gandhi being a closet atheist. It's not unthinkable. 

But this man... This interviewee I was overhearing... He struck a chord with me. Yeah, maybe he's just making all this up for the sake of getting his name in a (hopefully) obscure paper. But what if there existed another like him that truly believed this stuff and yet did not tell anyone? What if they believed simply because they believed? 

In other words, I asked myself the question: What is belief? 

I say I believe in true love, but what do I really mean? After all, I doubt the true existence of free love. So I don't really believe.
My friend Michael said to me today that during his yearly visit to a church, he recites the same ritualistic responses that most every Catholic does weekly, simply because he has always gone to Catholic schools. He doesn't really believe in what he says, though.
Even the office of the Pope has tried to make religion more mainstream by getting rid of the ridiculous hats worn by nuns and accepting evolution and the like as the truth. Even the Vatican doesn't truly believe. 

But that doesn't mean true belief cannot exist. And today is the first day I ever fully had this notion. Before today, I could not conceive of the idea of true belief. But now... 

...Now I can imagine the existence of a person who believes in nonsense just as much as I believe in logic. 

And that scares me.