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kimkaliLife has a strange way of carrying on when you want to sleep for a week.
Chasing doctors is not as much fun as it seemed in the Carry On films.
I have been writing again. I am thinking of posting poetry, but need to get some onto disk etc and edit etc and probably some dutch courage.
I don't know why I cannot cry, even now, after everything, and I want to. More than that, I need to. But I cannot submit to sympathy. I do not want to be held. Human touch still makes me flinch. After all this time, it still makes me flinch.
I think I need to listen to Alanis. If I cannot cry, I can purge.
I am exhausted. My mind is a bloody tangled mess, but I am motivated and *doing*, so why do I feel as if I am dead? Why does life still feel like a dreamstate?
I am writing again. I am quite pleased, I am definately improving, but I need to push myself more. I need to have contact with *the literati* although I have never actually liked the exclusive nature of that world. I have decided that part of my life plan is to include an English Literature degree, specialising in womens poetry (main focus 19th century onwards).
I am only intelligent enough to be aware of ignorance.
I loath ignorance.
Self-awareness causes suffering, I know, but I would rather suffer truth than be a blissful fool.
Truth cannot be denied. Truth is. Truth can be explored and discussed and simplified and philosophised (sic?) but it IS. I know the nature of truth can change, but there is a difference between an organic progress and complete refusal to accept. I dislike people who completely refuse to accept Truth, from Holocaust deniers to people from my own past and present (I have been reading Plath and make no appologies for this comparison).
***
One can always tell when I am writing.
X Kim
Chasing doctors is not as much fun as it seemed in the Carry On films.
I have been writing again. I am thinking of posting poetry, but need to get some onto disk etc and edit etc and probably some dutch courage.
I don't know why I cannot cry, even now, after everything, and I want to. More than that, I need to. But I cannot submit to sympathy. I do not want to be held. Human touch still makes me flinch. After all this time, it still makes me flinch.
I think I need to listen to Alanis. If I cannot cry, I can purge.
I am exhausted. My mind is a bloody tangled mess, but I am motivated and *doing*, so why do I feel as if I am dead? Why does life still feel like a dreamstate?
I am writing again. I am quite pleased, I am definately improving, but I need to push myself more. I need to have contact with *the literati* although I have never actually liked the exclusive nature of that world. I have decided that part of my life plan is to include an English Literature degree, specialising in womens poetry (main focus 19th century onwards).
I am only intelligent enough to be aware of ignorance.
I loath ignorance.
Self-awareness causes suffering, I know, but I would rather suffer truth than be a blissful fool.
Truth cannot be denied. Truth is. Truth can be explored and discussed and simplified and philosophised (sic?) but it IS. I know the nature of truth can change, but there is a difference between an organic progress and complete refusal to accept. I dislike people who completely refuse to accept Truth, from Holocaust deniers to people from my own past and present (I have been reading Plath and make no appologies for this comparison).
***
One can always tell when I am writing.
X Kim
