A Personal Rant of Which There Holds No Significance Other than Catharsis of an Imperfect Human Being

There is a wonderful thing called "synchronocity" that I used to cherish. I once believed that the various coincidences and the seemingly profound realizations I've received from random experiences are proof that there is some sort of order to all of this, some sort of meaning, some sort of purpose. That was, of course, before I met a wonderful man named Arthur Schopenhaur and an even more delightful gentleman who calls himself Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche.

The so-called "meaning" that I've pretended to reject has not truly been ejected from my system, as I still hold on to the hope that somehow there will be a grand arch to all of this. True, there are those who argue that the grand arch is all in perspective and therefore establishing any forms of absolutes is futile (including the preceding absolute), but I must say that I have not been honest in my search. Apparently I've been looking for some sort of narrative structure within my own life that has bits and pieces of a slave mentality and liberation stories--I am a downtrodden Cinderella who can only dream of Prince Charming until I have a most beautiful experience with the fairy godmother. Well, I've met lots of fairies. I don't have a godmother. And the magicky stuff that I once thought was all super-cool and meaningful is an exercise in hopelessness as I am still, despite all of my many spells and charms, dreadfully single and alone. Once again, we can refer to the possibility of supernatural influences (although I choose not to believe in such sorts... most of the time) that seem to love my misery more than I do. Of this I have much silence. I will say, however, that one of those old powerful hoodoo spells have shown me an extremely grim prediction, indicating that I will be having troubles with whatever lovelife I somehow stumble into (assuming one exists at all).

There will be those who argue "what the hell do you need a love life for?" To them I answer: to battle the cold emptiness. From what I hear, relationships tend to be enough of a distraction from chronic ennui, but perhaps I am too quick in my judgment. Most likely it is due to how I have idealized relationships so much that if I do not experience what I've contextualized, I'll go crazier than I already am. Well, consider the situation in which I am disappointed by love--I will know that enough, the pain, and perhaps that will keep me from straying into this subject matter. However, this essentially contradicts my escapism, so I'm left with no argument.

Fine then. Destroy me. Cut me open. Hack me into little pieces and see what is going on determinisitically in my body. I tell you this--I don't know. I don't know if I ever will know. All I know is that I need to catch up on sleep and hopefully... just hopefully, I won't have to wake up in the morning.