Today, today, today...

I didn't sleep last night; my thoughts were racing pretty much constantly. I wrote a paper on the Romantic poet Coleridge. When I couldn't concentrate I typed my thoughts in a separate word document. Here's what happened.

For me anarchy is less of a political belief and more of a state of mind. Anarchy means living for yourself; it means not believing anything just because you are told. Anarchy means owning who you are and improving yourself with every ounce of your being. Anarchy means freedom. The only problem with Anarchy is that it requires a lot from every person on Earth.

Every time I take adderall I urge to pick up a pair of sticks. The jitteriness and inability to keep my mind focused on one solid thought reminds me of beating the shit out of a drum. Percussion was such an impact on my life in high school; being a part of the marching band gave me the most solid identity. Even to this day (I haven’t drummed in at least two years) I still drum and make beats on everything around me. It’s been ingrained into my personality, and was my introduction to performing music. It scares me to think how something that used to be so important to me has now disintegrated to nothing more than a nervous habit.

If I were to write songs, they would all be lies; I would simply tell stories in my lyrics. They would have no relation to my life—simply a collection of thought for thoughts sake. I would pour that part of myself that I can’t live in my day to day; the crazy, radical, revolutionary ideals that cannot be uttered within the normal constrains of society. I would live the fake life I can’t achieve by making music.

First semester of sophomore year was one of fuck ups. I hardly went to class, I took too many drugs and didn’t seem to care what direction my life was taking. During the depression I blamed many people for whatever troubles I’ve had; I blamed my teachers for my poor grades, the people around me for my depression, and external stress for my excessive partying. I honestly believed these delusions I had constructed in my mind. Upon reflection I realized my fallacy; there is nobody in this world (with few exceptions) you can blame for your life but yourself. If I had done the reading for class, I would have learned, if I had been honest with the people around me I wouldn’t have felt as trapped, and if I hadn’t been running from my problems, I would not have had to turn to vices. Make the most the madness of life and learn from your fuck ups.

Shoes are exactly like life. When you first get them they are fresh and new like a baby; everybody notices them and appreciates them for their beauty. Compliments are constructed and for a brief period of time both shoes and babies are incredibly renowned for their novelty and innocence. Time goes on and both shoes and life get a little dirty. They get beat up by time and slowly fall apart and become ugly. However, there reaches a point in life and shoes when something amazing happens; after all the hardships both gain something very important: integrity. When this point is reached suddenly both become cool again. Past mistakes and grievances are forgiven and shoes and life is once again adored; only this time it’s for what they’ve seen instead of what they haven’t.

“A job is something you can’t stand. I love to read, I love to write, I love to play video games, I love music, I love to organize, I love comics, cartoons, and anime. I hate to work and would never want to make any of these things my career. My dream job is something between the hours of nine to five and that’s it. I want to be able to dream about coming home and doing what I love; I don’t want to be doing what I love at work. No matter how much you love your job it’s nothing but a job, a way to make money.
I want work to be mindless; I want my mind to wonder while I work. Education is work. I study the field that interests me, but I refuse to learn something that I love. Education is structured, and passion is anything but structured. Passion is learned through experience—and not in a class. Because of class I notice faults in authors I used to deem flawless; meaningless, minuscule grammatical flaws now bother me. Because of education I over analyze. An incorrect dash, a period that should have been a semicolon, and a comma that shouldn’t be there, and I am no longer enthralled. The rules that writers must follow—arbitrary to the novel as a whole—distance me from the author and their work.
In the world of literature everything is a symbol for something else. Elm trees symbolize hope, fruit is ALWAYS sex, a woman sewing means she’s faithful, birch trees are hard working—even though they never sweat—everything means sex, except for sex—that means submission. So many symbols, I can’t remember them all, how can the author? How is it possible for every author throughout the history of all written language keep them all straight?”

I wrote this a year ago—my opinion has changed. I feel like this year (and the past few weeks especially) I’ve matured greatly. I now want my life to have more meaning. I do not want to live day by day in a job where I only wait to go home. I want to have an impact on the world; I want to produce something that will influence a stranger. The thought of someone I never knew picking up the fruition of my creative labors and gathering meaning from it fills me with hope. I want to help somebody work through the trials of life. If there is an afterlife and I can look down on the world and see somebody remember me after my death, my soul can know it has a reason to exist.
Also, I tried was too hard to use dashes.