I can't stop writing in this thing. I'm such a fool. I have so many intentions and desires and I seem to have a praeternatural ability to act in just that way which would destroy any hope of them being realized. Or at least it seems like that to me. And I have a truly remarkable talent for alienating people; no matter how open and kind they are, I will inevitably do something to make me appear as a plague victim to them- something to be pitied but kept at a distance.
I long so much for so many things and I hate accepting that those longings will go unfulfilled. And the worst part is that I generate the impression that I want to either get everyone to think like me or that I like to judge others. And I don't.
I just want to understand- to understand what other people think and why they think it; -to understand what I _really_ think (as opposed to what I think I think) and why I think it. And I can't do that sitting in Descarte's oven. I have to converse, to dialogue with strangers, co-workers and, most important of all to me, my friends. I don't want to dominate others or to be aggressive. I often go through periods of shock at what I do to other people unintentionally. I just want to find some kindred spirits, fellow travelers who aren't afraid to criticize or be criticized (provided its done out of a love of truth and charity). I don't want to tame anyone and I don't want anyone to tame me. I've made the foolish mistake of attempting the former and have had the latter happen to me, and I grieve my sins in both regards. I want to live a life worth living, devoted to doing the right, developing my intellect, and enjoying the pleasures of companionship. Am I wrong? Am I too caustic or too idealistic? Sometimes I think I annoy people by taking myself down a peg before they get a chance to do it. As a result, the anger never gets spent at the best time and lingers in a way which is injurious to the relationships I try to co-create. And I can be so intense. I have reserviors of devotion deep like the trenches of the Pacific, devotion to friends, lovers and ideals; I think this scares most people. But I can't help it. And I don't want to help it. I don't want to live a half-life without this passion. I feel my passion, my joy, my misery- I'd live a life hellish emptiness without it. So if I am hurt, I'll relish that hurt- I'll cry out in anger at the world, at the way it forces women and men to behave towards one another, at the way it forces people to behave towards those who are different, and I'll let the anger simmer down until I can do something constructive with it. It's so wierd: I can love anyone with a total love; the love just takes possession of me and doesn't care whom the recipient is. But those to whom I am most attracted, those whom I _want_ to love always seem to exist in parallel universe- I can reach out and try to touch them, but my hand just passes through them. I used to think it was just a lack of confidence, a lack of courage. But I think it's just that I have an acute case of the tragic sense of life; that somehow fate really is decreeing the limits of my freedom- that no matter how I may act on my desires, certain things will never happen. My Lord, I hope I'm wrong.