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Post by JEAN-PAUL DUBOIS on Jul 2, 2011 20:13:21 GMT -5
"Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary..." ~Edgar Allan Poe _________________________________ Property of Jean DuBois [/font] [/color] |
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Post by JEAN-PAUL DUBOIS on Jul 2, 2011 21:25:28 GMT -5
~Edgar Allan Poe _________________________________
Ruthlessly persistent, those braincels are.
Pushing me toward this machine, beging me to write down my thoughts. Triviial, really, a juornal like this. I see no greater purose in doing this, other than feeling better about myself. And that is entirely impossible. Better? About myself? Ha! As if I coulb change who I was. I'm a miserable pld man, I know. I am not blind to my faults, nor my inadewuate upbringings. I forget sometimes, I must admit (as that is quite courteous of me), that I am a man, not a demon..
So, I've taken to the pen... Or... Rather keyboard, as it were, to remind myself of my odligations to the human race. My thoughts tend to slip away from me, and I loose sight of what is truly important. That is to say... I have no idea what is important in this world. Haha. All my life I've wondered my purpose, though does anybody really have a clear goal in life? I think not.
I have always found myself seperate from the human race. Not just because of my face, but because of my intellect and incomparable immer monologue. I've often compared myself to the likes of shakespaer and Poe (whom I highly regard as the best author of any age, which is why dear computer screen, you will see a quote from him gracing the header of each journal entry), though I don't have nearly the capacity or capability to write all this down by hand, as all great writers doIt is silly to write a story or a publishable work on a machine. WHere is the challenge? The struqqle? The scriddles and crumpled paper? This is why I write all my music by hand.
I cannot say the same about this journal, however. Unfortunatelie, I do not posses the means of writing out my thoughts in an acctual notedook or even a sheet of paper. You probably do not know this of course (since you are a computer), but I'm am a diagnoosed dyslexic. Therefore, ever since I was a young boy, my handwrittting and spelling has been atrocsious. I have scanned and uploabed a picture of said writing, meerely for my records (in my customary red ink, something I am "bleeding over," if you'll eckuse the pun, into my digital musings).
You see now, of course, what I'm talking about. I'm sure this entry is ribbled with mistakes in spelling and grammar, but I cannot help it, as I know no butter (I would utilise the affects of a spell checkers, but why bother hibing something noone else will see anyways?). It is... childish of me... My mother often screemed at me becuse I could hardly hollld a pen propperlie. I find it thouroughly embarrassing, and should die if someone found outEspeciallie...
No, nevermind. She will not be discussed here, in this place for tranwuill thoughts. She is far too maeningless to me, truly. Not when I have an entire opera sitting at my piano waiting to be finished. No, I shouldnt speak of her when there were more important things to do... Rather than paint her... Or drawl her... Or compose for her.
No, she won't be spoken of here.
INstead I shall speak of simpler things. My coffee was grand this morning, black, just hwo I like it. I look foward to a nice meel out in a small dimly lit restarant at the corner of my street. This week should be pleasant as I look fowqard to the weekend showing of the russian Ballet's Sleeping Beautyat the MEt.
There, my mind is compleetely away from Jane Eyre.
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Dammit. |
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