You talk way too fucking much

I thought that by keeping myself stationary and by letting the poisonous insects of my social hell-hole sting and bite me, I was defending my pride, my honor, and my sympathy. How fleeting and dramatic! It was nothing, meaningless! I was only sustaining a foolish consistency. I am no longer ashamed of my ability to hate and to despise. I had already distinguished myself as a despiser, but i suppose that I really didn't believe myself: I was being untruthful and halfhearted! I wanted to believe that it was in-the-moment, and that it was only pretense; a game; a childish habit, but I am no longer sure. Is it succumbing to human nature and meaningless drama? This, I am not sure, but I do know that I have been stuck in my self hatred. I have been wallowing in the manure of the superfluous: my own words.

Those who have a goal say, "This is a dream, a dream of my own, and I am beautiful for it." And they are whole hearted, but my words are the words of one who listens to himself speak and preach, and that is my tragic flaw! I admire what I say, and so, I taint my words with the poison of the envious. Each sentence becomes a bullet of my own firing and I begin to believe all too much what I say - the ignorant and the supercilious.
So what must I do? I assure you, I must listen when I speak, but I must speak! Must I? I fear that my thoughts may obscure my sanity more than my words would. No, my thoughts are pure and instinctive and I cannot deny the sense they present. They deserve much more attention than my words do. They will make me hate myself, my words. I will live in absurdity and I will be become sullen and melancholy.
Speak or Silence...?
Should I speak? Shall I no longer?

Camus

So,
As of today, my stress levels have significantly dropped - plummeted really. I feel great! I feel fresh as a bagel! I'm not exactly sure why, but I think that its a good thing and that I have to reason to question things like that anyway! If I am content, I see no reason to ruin it, I (unlike some) see my happiness as a sense of purity. And one might say to that: "The purity you see is but an illusion, a fallacy, and a farce and if not a farce, then an all too real absurdity."
And I say to this: "You are mistaken in my perspective, a fallacy or a realism, it is neither. They are as I feel them and I have learned to not deny my senses. It may be creative, artistic, and scenic to have one's heads in the clouds, but if one never glances downward, one will trip over the malicious rocks and stones of realism and absurdity and therefore brings one into the opposite extreme of self pity."
So, without the impending luminescence of existential thought, one must compensate. Of course, when I try to compensate, I only disappoint myself with the largest rock of all. What I like to call The Stone of Malice. It is a large, black, smooth, translucent stone that reflects and embellishes one's bitter and misanthropic tendencies.
Ugh! sometimes I get so sick of my own tendencies that are supercilious and arrogant, which then leads to bitterness, then depression, and then realization, and then finally absurdity. Which philosopher was the one who mentioned absurdity? Was is Camus? He was interesting, and his writing made me dizzy. But never the less, he wrote about absurdity and its ultimate relationship with suicide...

The ice has bitten back on the air,
~Sir December

There! Their! They're!

Ahoy!
Me regaurds to those trapped in this unexpected sea of snow that has fallen around our feet. One must hurry! The current is swift! And the surface is rising! Please, hurry! It is only a matter of time before my berserk spirit swallows this tiny little town in ice and snow!

Am I so dear? Do I run rare?

I am sitting in my room. I am listening to music. This music is blissful to me. It is so beautiful, so very beautiful. Her harp, her voice, they are such a peculiar combination, so real and so fantastic at the same time. It is incredible how one of such gentle, delicate and innocuous nature can bring such a bitter, lonely and stoic despiser as myself to the point of tears. Sometimes I think that I am trapped in some kind of illusion that she produces; no one else sees and hears what I see and hear from her maternal and nurturing gaze as she concentrates on those oscillating wires. It makes me feel like I am being tempted and entranced my some cruel and longing siren. Of course, I can never feel this way for more than one or two seconds, it is just so strange to me that only a few others feel the same way. I forget occasionally, that she is like me. A person. Once in a while, my mind gets the best of me, I imagine that she is a fairy/faerie/phaerie, a nymph, or any other creature of the Forrest and Wood. I forget that she lives in California, that she is human, that she sings with her harp on stage, and that she tours and travels and drives. It is an idea that is still hard for me to remember sometimes. Oh Joanna, if you could only see the beauty you are! Maybe you do...

Peach, Plum Pear,
~Sir December

Distraction & Yogurt

I try to be secretive, and I try to make life interesting, I do, I try. Do I fail? Do I succeed? Is there a form of success in my endeavors? Does it matter? I have a face that shows what I am thinking, despite what my mouth says. It is sickening at times. Those who are ignorant - who are "happy," say the things that strike me like a blow to the face. They insult, ignore, ridicule, mock, and rape me of my values and my principles until I can taste the bile at the back of my throat. So is the fight meaningful? Does it have a purpose? Do I wait? Do I read? The light, the heavy? Nietzsche? Camus?

The taste of Cherry Blossoms obscures the malice on the air,
~Sir December