For I am jaded, perhaps more jaded than I ought to be in this position. I realize the most probable outcome. It really doesn't matter what efforts I make now, because they will thud softly against the inevitable and fall to the ground, cold. As though they had never been audible.
However...on approximately my twentieth try during warm-ups to make a handstand-pirouette over the bar, I realized that I am incapable of being passive. I am incapable of not kicking it in during this final stretch of the race. I am incapable of not looking at this puzzle and twisting my neck, squinching my gaze, squeezing the smallest of strategy and chance out. I am incapable of not making a damn good attempt.
That is what I call living. If a man does not do what is described above, then that man does not truly live. I am envious... Although I get to study physics in college today, it has truly been a very long time since physics has so enthralled me as to do what is described above.
I suppose this is because the newness of the subject is gone... Oh, how I wish I could learn all of physics over again! To know a thing for the first time is the most beautiful of feelings; to actually discover it yourself is orgasmic -- but alas, I am at a point in my knowledge where just keeping up is hard in itself. I haven't independently come up with anything for a very very long time... ::sigh::
More from miching mallecho's diary on FreeOpenDiary.com:
It's good to feel alive again.
I suppose I want to record these things, so that if I fail, I am able to look back and know that I made a valiant attempt. It was the best I could do, the best it could feel, and maybe circumstances were too great for my control.
Dostoevsky was the same way, and he, like miching mallecho realized it.
Am I that way? If so, then I don't realize it. Or is my questioning of the fact now proof that I at least suspect it?
It didn't make me happy to be as I was, so why was I that way? Could it be that I wanted an unconscious excuse to get away, though consciously I wanted nothing but? When was I last truly happy? I am tempted to answer right away, but if I do, then the answer means nothing.
When was I last truly happy?
When I started this diary [originally published on FreeOpenDiary.com], I chose the pseudonym Garacan. I would have chosen EricJHerboso, but the legal notice that you agree to when you start the online diary states that it is necessary to not use your full name in the title, though it is permissable within the context of the journal. But why Garacan?
When I first got online, it was on an old 80286, and I used MG377 as my username. I chose that name because it defined the three main characters in a book I was then in the process of writing. The pseudonym Garacan is also from this book, which is still left unfinished.
Why did I choose this name?
Could it be that subconsciously it reminds me of happier times? Could it be that the last truly happy thought I've had is from back when our 80286 was new?
That's a scary thought. Especially since I'm afraid it might be true.
It was in mid-1996 that I had my first major epiphany.
It was in late 1999 that I had my second one.
I wonder what Dostoevsky would say if he were here next to me.
"Eric, my boy, you need to think," he would say. "You talk all high and mightily, yet you still know nothing." I imagine his eyes would sparkle as he spoke. "Go out and suffer first, and then you might be somebody. Until then, you are but an ant."
Knowing myself, I'd likely argue with him.
"But sir, have I not suffered enough already? Look at all that I've gone through! And beyond that, what purpose does suffering serve? Is it not enough to be heroic without being misunderstood?"
"Do not call me 'sir', boy! You know nothing of suffering! You have gone through nothing in your short pathetic life! Hah! You don't even know that without suffering there is no such thing as a hero!"
At that, I imagine he would disappear into thin air, not bothering to even allow me to argue further with him, and not even caring whether or not I understood his stance on the subject.
::sigh:: Not even an imagined Dostoevsky will talk to me. I must truly be pathetic.
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