we are dreams

I’m a strange fellow. My behavior is even more strange. I was told that once I have happiness, I must chuck it – throw it all away. Instantly, with celerity and alacrity. Oh!

No, St. John’s was not happiness. I did chuck it, but because it was something that I thought I wanted to be; it was a fantasy, an embecile fantasy. Somehow, there is a vast chasm dividing theory and reality.

The curriculum seemed to be wending along this path that would culminate in an Apollonius-like end. There is no philosophy there, i.e., speculation. I don’t like mathematics; I never will. I prefer speculation and uncertainty. I am a philosopher, a dreamer. Only through discourse can I approach Truth, though never will I reach it; I don’t think I want it any other way.

A self-actualized person is an unhappy person. The dream is over and the comedy comes to an end, without applause. But as Shakespeare says, “We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.” Without dreams, we are nothing. Life is worthless, a fantastic void.

I don’t know what my dreams are, but I know I have them. I never dreamt of being president or an astronaut, nor was I encouraged in such a direction. Man’s inspirations and therefore actions are to a large extent, a result of his environment, to wit: “It is not the consciousness of man that determines his existence – rather, it is his social existence that determines his consciousness.” No wonder I am digusted with those people that wave their tiny flags, informing the world of how proud they are to be an American. There are few things that disgust me more than nationalism – a reaction to a sense of inferiority.

Moderation is good, but sometimes, it must be abandoned and we must give ourselves to excesses, only so can we escape mediocrity; but we also run the risk of utter destruction.

These are my hands and I am writing in a sense. I have much to say but I need to find my narrative, that thing that will allow me to write, to become a fountainhead of stories. From my pen will spill forth endless arrangements of words; I hope.

I want to be a writer! Why? I honestly don’t know. Does it matter. I haven’t anything better to do.

I want to be sincere, I want to be honest. Then, must I ultimately find myself alone? But, I fear loneliness, but not necessarily the absence of people but the absence of voices. Only in their absence does my voice become completely audible and unbearable. And how my voice torments me. It is primitive and maddening.