Ah...terrible ideas abound.
So this is what all the great bards rhapsodize in song and all the great writers fantasize in the written word? This—this endless irritation and restlessness? What about this horrendous turmoil incites poetry? Prose? Most importantly: Why did I ever allow myself to be seduced into this graceless, unhappy state? You would think that the tragic end Goethe gave Werther would caution me away from these vicious emotions but I appear to have completely disregarded the apt warning; and in doing so, betrayed myself to the less rational, and more indulgent part of me that I have been trying so hard to restrain. This ever so regrettable piece; bare and vulnerable, and sickeningly full of painful feeling as to be comparable to peeling back a layer of skin and pushing at the exposed nerves underneath. Deplorable! Immature! And yet for all the indignant words my conscience throws at me I continue to—to have all these impossible ideas and, worst of all, hopes! Can you imagine? Hopes! Based on what, you ask? Wisps! Superfluous words, nonexistent hints! It’s like trying to trap the fog in a glass jar! All I capture is a headache and a crystal clear bottle of nothing. Nothing is there, nothing will happen—but still, like a fool, I stand by the water and watch the green light pulse past the end of the pier. Will I end up floating face down in a pool, too?
It is tiring, and now I wish I’d never asked for it. I simply had the thought one day that, perhaps, I’d never felt any genuine interest for anyone; that all I’d ever felt was a shallow fixation on the idea of someone and never the person himself. Then I toyed with the notion, held it in my hand, and look at where that’s gotten me now. If this, too, is but another lost case of infatuation, then I only pray that I will remember the lesson this mistake will have taught me.
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