So Today is The Last Day of the Year. Which year, I'm not quite sure. Probably not one that will stand out for long in my admittedly faulty memory.

Today I shall stand tribute to a new life. How long this new life shall hold sway over future behavior is, of course, to be questioned. But with such an attitude one is bound to fail and so, with optimism as my ally, I do claim victory over future impulses and shall lead a life more preferable to my particular tastes and desires than the one I have, until this moment, been leading.

If one has the possibility of perfection why not pursue such an ideal? Well, I do not have such a possibility because I am far too weak to even comprehend what such a trial would entail. However, I do own a particular idea of perfection, tailored to my abilities, that I shall attempt to capture beginning, of course, with the New Year.

Happy New Year.

To exemplify my dedication and new found discipline I am taking the day in fast and physical and mental exertion. Till the night, of course, when I shall meet with my friends and, though abstaining still of all food and excess save water, shall relax my new dignified person and enjoy the evening and all that is heralds.


...People keep telling me that this is a chance to be myself. That college is the time to open up and be who I've always wanted to be. The problem, I've found, with this is that I've very little idea of who I am or who I want to be. My idea of perfection includes many a chaotic and incompatible characteristic due soley to the fact that I find all people perfect in their confident ability to live and love and hate and desire. So compiling a perfect me has been difficult to say the least.

And how do I know that the perfect me I choose will be the happiest me possible?

And how do I know that the happiest me possible will be the one most beneficial to this society which I do love and find myself indebted to?

How do I balance the world with myself?

Just where do I lie within this vast expanse of being and is there really any room for yet another personality? Is there even any need for another one?

Do not take me for unhappy. I thrill at the challenge of self-discovery! Nothing excites me more than getting to know my most intimate confidante: myself!

And Happy New Year! For as I would have you conclude from the beginning of this post, I do have some idea of Who I Am and I am excited and ready to develope that idea into a physical being. It is birth!

Caligula and I are pen pals. Together we author madness and romance, tragedy and brutality and beauty. His name is liquid and golden and I am envious of the bitter sweet nature of his insanity. Would you call me Little Boots too?
His name is the silver reflection of a narcissus and I am Echo. Or the echo. Because phantoms don't have names; they are not denoted by the capitalization of a letter. My voice is all that is left. An idea. A repetition of "Alas...alas..."
Would that a pomegranate would preserve my sanity, keep me in death's embrace and away from life's all consuming flame.
"Have me", I call...

Because I'm Fabulous

Let's start with "The blue sun swallowed the desert's trees" No...Close though. I like the idea of a blue sun. Let us say instead "The Blue Sun gave birth to the ocean sorrow “ Scratch it all…
Napoleon is a pastry. This is going to become my catch phrase. “Living, loving, knowing – not”.
I’m bleeding ink. My eyes should be parchment for all that they think. Blank, white opportunity. I want to scribble on them - drench them in color and depth. My hands are porous for they absorb the thoughts that would pour forth from the tips of my fingers preventing progress.
I’m almost there.
Here is where the poetry comes out. There, in your mind, is where it flowers.
Except…not tonight.
I want for reaching. I try for naught.
The fluorescence of a palpitating heart is fickle. It shall not light your way. But can one truly argue for the alleged beacon that is logical thought?
Short, intense, colorful thoughts - that’s what I need. But first I need a spark…
Just play

As I reach for the fragments of originality left to me they crumble at my touch and become the dust blown into my eye which blinds me to my purpose.

...there I am again...and there again and again and...again...

An introduction is in order.

My name is inconsequestial.

I exist soley in the mind. I am an idea. You all know me as a different phantom of thought and imagniation.

I am a ghost within my own mind.

As a specter I am endowed with the whitest of hair and the palest of skin...or at least I feel I should be...

There are others here as well. Ideas who vie for a chance to assert their influence.

If I were a french boy I'd sing in a choir.

I want to fly.

I think I'll die before I'm thirty and I'm ok with that.

I want a child sometimes more than I want to remain living.

When I do die, I want to go out in an explosion. Someone please blow me up.

My fingers often feel as if they want to run away.

I wish I did bleed ink.

I wish I had more teeth.

I often want to paint my belly...but I'm never sure what I want to paint on it.

Sometimes I get this feeling in my chest where I am impatient to leave but there's no where to go...

I wish people weren't so sensitive.

I hate blustering.

I love people.

I hate people.

I love people...

I seem to be sad tonight...I should get off.

Night.

And so I once again allow my fingers to waltz over the keyboard, giving life and character to a formerly nonexistent blog page. But now I shall find camaraderie in my postings, for I have enlisted the friendship and insight of others to follow and to be followed by.

I am excited!

I feel as if, for this occasion, I should write something of special note.

And I will, in a new post. Give me a second...