I have been a sick boy, a sick adolescent, and a sick adult and somehow have never been aware of it. As a child I would stare at the ceiling immersed in thoughts I have long forgotten. I often hear people are drawn to me (I have never forgotten a compliment in my life by the way) and after some meditation I realized such words are no compliment. People are drawn to me in my brazenness, in my indignation for everything. I am sure to cause a spectacle and then pout for a while and then pout standing, addressing whatever task their might be in that I can continue to maintain my eight dollar salary so that I can appease her taste for the ‘latest trends.’ I am sure to give up right after some whimsical grand stand. As my father likes to call and say, “You just can’t get anything right.” I would lie and say that is a harsh thing to say. But as they say I am just not practically minded, five minutes of caprice, and on to something else.


Life is suffering. But I find myself rather in high spirits most of the time until four days ago. I suffer because I am the jester in the modern court of Man: one does not swagger to the stand at his arraignment with a countenance of carelessness, laughing about his foolery, giggling ‘guilty’. Such demeanor and conduct would heave a man into the slimy hands of the so called ‘impartial’ jurors, who would rather be watching Oprah. One must have a sullen demeanor, downcast eyes, and a tone of increasing guilt as each word is spoken. He must believe in all his heart that he was the absolute cause of his foolishness, not some variable, not some illness… of course not damned alcohol.


And yet it seems like there are others like me who may be intelligent with good intentions, with a ‘good heart’ and yet these young men dive headfirst into a pool of guilt, simply so they do not have to accept twiddling their thumbs while bored and holding down there tongue when being spoken down to, simply out of a case of their presupposed attacked character. They forget the next step. They forget of time and toil. A young man cannot find himself in this world swimming in a muddle of guilt: the roar of modern life will envelope them. From this state springs forth the conceit, the indignation, the mawkish idealism, the aura of arrogance people will speak of. And in this miserably unfortunate condition, while on his knees, he tries to break ground and make amends to all, rather than remembering his duty to himself. But I have forgotten myself. I have convinced myself my girlfriend is a deviant. I have lost all interest in appeasing another person on this earth.


I am surely delusional. I am one long rant maybe stretching from here to Hell. The rant must be a product of my own conscious, but than I would be the source of all this misery. I am positively convinced it is the rambling of the Devil. I know he will be laughing at me as I stand before him if I dare doing the last hoorah, laughing and saying, ‘giggle, if you’re free.’ I have had little sleep lately. I seem almost hourly to get lost in my thoughts staring into the plain white wall in front of my couch, fall asleep, awaken, and dose off again. My girlfriend left me. Mother and father are terribly worried about me. I wish she would call me. I am almost out of money. How am I going to sleep? How will I trust her again? Oh God, why are you doing this to me? I used to have others to speak to. But I’ve been alone for the last four days. I find solace yesterday in the specials at the grocery store. I am so unhappy that I want to laugh at the pity of it all. But then that would be rational. And I would see that all this is simply a fabrication played out in excess, just a funk like all the others. Or am I finally really truly suffering. She will come home to me in the morning. It will all work out like she said. Good Lord, the ramble is Hell.