Reflection from May 18th, 2001 @ Age 19
Well, I just spent like, two hours reading journal entries from the past eight years of my life. It kind of makes me realize how very insignificant everything really is. Strange. I still can’t get over, how very strange it is—how things change, over time. I went down to Miami with John last week, before I came out to Minnesota—for a night, and we hung out with Adam and his girlfriend. And, it’s so strange—how all that shit happened, my senior year in high school with him. The reason is, when I saw him—it was just like, enough time had passed for the anger to fade away…
You know, it didn’t really bother me. And, god, I hate to admit this, but—he, in a very, very, very odd way, seemed very attractive to me.
And then, mom and I were talking about him tonight—and, she said his mother tried to explain to her one time, why he was so strange. And, I guess it was because, his father and him used to be very close—and then, one day, his father divorced his mom and left…
And, that was it—forever. God, it made me feel like such an awful person. And now, I have this thing—this feeling, like I want him. Ugh.
Sometimes, I feel like such an idiot. I always used to think I was smart…
I was. I think, I mean, I am—I guess, but I am such a ditz. Reading through all those journal entries—I mean, I know I can’t compare myself to Jen…
So she’s a natural-born writer/alcoholic (no, that’s not funny)—or John, who’s a genius (who would’a known?). But, I’m an idiot. Am not an idiot? I just have no idea what to do with my life. At all. Very normal?
People sometimes think I’m beautiful. People often, think I’m beautiful. This baffles me. I’m not tall, or extremely thin. I don’t have long, wavy, gorgeous blonde hair. I have short, dark brown hair—my natural color, no highlights. I don’t have blue eyes—I have light brown eyes, with a hint of green. My clothes don’t always match—nor, do I care. I’m a pretty smart girl—but, by no means a genius, like John. I have little-to-no common sense. I act like a ditz half the time—for reasons, I can’t even explain. I bite my nails. I have scars on my face and arms and feet. I have huge feet, with extremely long toes. I cry a lot. I can’t stick to anything—at all.
I have horrible taste in men—so far. My breasts are small. I have love handles. My hair is always in my eyes. My glasses are ugly. I have a god-awful lamp sitting on my lingerie chest, that I love. My spelling is atrocious! And, yet, people think I’m beautiful. Kara’s mom, of all people, thought I was beautiful.
I just can’t figure it out. I hate to think about it, because I have this fear—that it’s just this huge joke, that everyone is in on. I can’t figure it out, for the life of me. Jen once told me, in more words, that I was beautiful. I have a high-pitched, annoying voice—that people make fun of all the time. Most of the time, I am either completely happy or completely depressed. I always come up with unbearably unrealistic, off-the-wall ideas.
Do people not see all of this? Or, is it this—that is beauty? I can’t figure it out. In high school, I was so shy—for so long…
And yet, to this day, I still find out from strange people—that guys I went to high school with were, and still are, head-over-heals in love with me. It doesn’t make any sense. I’m an awful driver. I’m scared to make new friends. I live in Minnesota. I grew up in Ohio, for god’s sake. And, yet, people think I’m beautiful. It’s a strange place, this world is.
I walk amongst men as the fragments of the future: that future which I contemplate.
And it is all my poetisation and aspiration, to compose and collect into unity what is fragment and riddle and fearful chance.
And how could I endure to be a man, if man were not also the composer, and riddle-reader, and redeemer of chance!
To redeem what is past, and to transform every “It was” into “Thus would I have it!” that only do I call redemption!
Will—so is the emancipator and joy-bringer called: thus have I taught you, my friends! But now learn this likewise: the Will itself is still a prisoner.
Willing emancipateth: but what is that called which still putteth the emancipator in chains?
“It was”: thus is the Will’s teeth-gnashing and lonesomest tribulation called. Impotent towards what hath been done—it is a malicious spectator of all that is past.
Not backward can the Will will; that it cannot break time and time’s desire—that is the Will’s lonesomest tribulation.
Willing emancipateth: what doth Willing itself devise in order to get free from its tribulation and mock at its prison?
Ah, a fool becometh every prisoner! Foolishly delivereth itself also the imprisoned Will.
That time doth not run backward—that is its animosity: “That which was”: so is the stone which it cannot roll, called.
And thus doth it roll stones out of animosity and ill-humour, and taketh revenge on whatever doth not, like it, feel rage and ill-humour.
Thus did the Will, the emancipator, become a torturer; and on all that is capable of suffering it taketh revenge, because it cannot go backward.
This, yea this alone is revenge itself: the Will’s antipathy to time, and its “It was.”
Verily, a great folly dwelleth in our Will; and it became a curse unto all humanity, that this folly acquired spirit!
“Penalty,” so calleth itself revenge. With a lying word it feigneth a good conscience.
And because in the will himself there is suffering, because he cannot will backwards—thus was Willing itself, and all life, claimed—to be penalty!
And then did cloud after cloud roll over the spirit, until at last madness preached: “Everything perisheth, therefore everything deserveth to perish!”
“Morally are things ordered according to justice and penalty. Oh, where is there deliverance from the flux of things and from the ‘existence’ of penalty?” Thus did madness preach.
“No deed can be annihilated: how could it be undone by the penalty! This, this is what is eternal in the ‘existence’ of penalty, that existence also must be eternally recurring deed and guilt!
Unless the Will should at last deliver itself, and Willing become non-Willing—”: but ye know, my brethren, this fabulous song of madness!
Away from those fabulous songs did I lead you when I taught you: “The Will is a creator.”
All “It was” is a fragment, a riddle, a fearful chance—until the creating Will saith thereto: “But thus would I have it.”
Until the creating Will saith thereto: “But thus do I will it! Thus shall I will it!”
Thus Spoke Zarathustra/Chapter 42—Redemption.
(0; Not war, SPORT—and, FYI, Romeanna <3’s Joliet ;0)