Wednesday, July 11, 2007

My first entry to a diary - MARCHUS 99th 0Five20

Two soldiers were elected. They were friends, very close at that; though they really love only one woman - they were rivals. But then they were elected not as rivals, but as friends. Anyway, they finally believed that joining the government would be much more preferrable than overthrowing it. Perhaps overthrowing the government is much satisfying if you are a member of it. But I just can't care though. For me, apathy is a deep mystery. To them the cliche is: If you can overthrow them, then join them; or: Join them and then overthrow them. That would really be a sweet thing for two friends. I really can not believe that friends could have a masochistic outlook in life. The greatest outlook to life is not to look for life at all, not to expect life, but defeat it: flew away from it, and never return!

No: bravery, I guess, would do. "Do not alter the sky in your life; even if your nightsky is starless - navigate, my captain, navigate!" This does not belong at all to bravery, but to suicide. I really wish I was a simple astronaut than be a captain. Astronauts, too, believe in anything. I do not really know about captains and sailors. "Let me castrate this, this piece of me: in the end, this is not me" may very well pass as the most lonely and solemn creed for two friends. Though not necessarily for soldiers.

You see, the problem is not really with the elected. It is with the pearl located at the deepest part of the pacific. It causes too much mystery that when the altar breaks, or when something breaks in an altar, they are cases that this pearl I've been talking about floats! It really floats! Anyhow, I was not impressed with the elections. With that pearl too. It simply floats!

But it couldn't have happened, had the pencils we used in the first grade were unbreakable. You see, the pen is the most alien and absurd thing for a first grader. When you use a pen, you can not erase what you have scribbled in your blackest of notes. But not for a pencil! So I may temporarily admit that practically the pencil is really mightier and wiser than the pen. The sword would not be part of this metaphor though; in the end the pencil only uses the sword (or the blade) for its own purposes. It might be very helpful to know, that what we write might not break. But unless we use pens (those pencils, really, could sometimes be quite annoying), what we write will never break. And what about quills, eh? Well then, let the sword slice them!
Damn, I nearly smashed my nose this morning. I thanked my cat for being there.

But I wonder why the hole on the tounge of the janitor at our University was not really that thorough. It still is coarse; the needle could not pass through it without causing blood to gush. I am terribly sorry for the janitor and the damn hole. Pain, too, is pleasure to me. But I think not for the janitor.

And, oh: who would have thought that there are brave souls who are trying to define things; things, which in the first place they are ignorant about!...I do not know about that solitary moon stupidly suspended in the sky. All I know is that our knowledge comes about either by description or by acquaintance. And nothing more, my dear! Nothing more! Barrios was really an artist. Such emotion in his works. Aguado, Tarrega, too, and Sor. Bach may perhaps pass as a painter, but not really a poet. But for me, he is a poet. Bach really is a mystery. That unconquerable intellect, possessed by emotion and reason! Really a possessed man, I mean.

Who would dare possess me, eh?

The seventh planet may perhaps now leave its place. It has no use to them. Those bastards, that makes the artist feel akward! They are not really worth reading. Retards of all kinds!

I really had a problem with the previous election. I was not that satisfied. But I do not care at all, though. I live out of spite. Who is worthy of my spite?

Not Bach. Not the artist.

Why do I feel awkward about the recent elections? I never cared about you. You were just an illusion in a dream. Very remote and distant to my waking life, yet so close to my senses.

I wish I was an astronaut. Really.

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