humanity's undermining

[Jan. 5th, 200901:26 pm]
all morning I recognize familiar frameworks filled with grey brick that have served as the reflective surface for so many past thoughts of loneliness. The white smoke billows into the blue sky from atop one of the tallest towers, and I am contented with the mere thought that it's better to be awake than asleep on days when the sun shines so bright this early in the day. In class I realize I've dressed too warm to sport a hood for an entire hour and am forced to show my tired face and messy hair; though i think it quite a sight, I doubt anyone takes any interest other than those who are seated in such a way that renders them choiceless in the matter.
In my seat and on the bus, in my walk towards coffee, and my sips leading to class, I oscillate constantly between two realms of thought; well, three if I count logic as a realm in the times where I'm actually paying attention to the content of the lecture.
There's the thoughts that have been building in my mind, piling up on one another as fragments in need of some unifying principle which I am yet to discover. I've been collecting all the pieces for years, and now what I require is to unify, for understanding is above all to unify. And to understand is surely our goal above all others, that is of course if we are not one of those who wishes to be acknowledged as someone who understands prior to actually understanding that which they wish to appear to understand, which a lot of us are most certainly guilty of.I am not comfortable with the thought of beginning to write something anymore without the entire course of the idea already written within my head; all systems have the endings written into the beginning, just as all good books have the ending in mind in the very first pages (in my opinion). But, like I said, I am not yet in a position to formulate an entire book based on the many fragments I have collected; analogies, character sketches that only continue to get more detailed, an underlying philosophy that, like you and me, will seemingly never move past the stage of becoming.
I oscillate between two realms, i've written so much on each perspective as of late, that I won't dare reiterate for this outlet's sake, I will merely clarify to myself what it is that's brought me here, in this seat, constantly looking over my shoulder to make sure nobody is approaching that I may know, though these words mean nothing, they would mean much less if they became fodder for the eye of one without a clue; i can't bare the thought of becoming something new to someone like you.

Love; this is the source of it all; the meaning to it all. I will not write my essay now. Maybe someday the ideas will find legs that will allow it to walk beyond this useless conveyance, for then I will save that essay, out of some unintelligible desire, for I know even if I could properly express myself, that it would amount to very little, perhaps in completion it would merely amount to a misunderstood expression that left only a mutated impression on the mind of someone who would only wish to steal the idea they thought they had percieved in order to present themselves as someone who understood; for what sake they would do that one need only half an imagination to infer.

The idea that plagues me though is love. For I am filled with such eternal aspirations while ceaselessly limited to what finite existence will allow the word to amount to. I refer to love, only in the sense of romantic love towards a female, for I do not dare to claim to seek the eternal love for the Good, I am too human to care about God when there is a pretty face sitting in front of me, yet so far away from me. Here's one way of understanding the vacillating that plagues me and follows me around all day; I am not stupid enough to believe in the eternal conception of romantic love, that which paints a portrait of finding the one and only pure and true love to spend eternity with, yet, I am human enough to allow the negation of the ideal of that kind of love to break my heart. Therefore, I am left in a paradoxical state of defeat that never lets go of it's dream for triumph. It plays out in my mind: The thought that I find this terribly uninteresting girl interesting due to alcohol and need, loneliness and lust, quickly is followed by the thought of your humanness too, and that you would just as easily find someone interesting that I could see through with closed eyes. The initial feeling of anger is quickly replaced by that of sadness, but a sadness that refuses to accept defeat unfortunately; one that clings on to hope despite the fact that hope is the very dispostion that renders the entire state of it all to leave me saddened, for if I could give up that hope for love in it's truest (figuratively) form, then I could move on to accept love in it's best form. In it's earthly form, that which is subject to so many flaws, given the nature of humanity.
Don Juan was able to accept what love meant and moved on from there in an awareness of life that warranted him the best kind of happiness that could be found in the realm of interest; quantity. Living only in the present tense, and not as a collector, a forgetter and a wanter of more he approached his love life. There is nothing undesirable about the pretty girl laying next to you, it's a mistake to assume that one's leaving is always a result of some disinterest, for there is always something appealling about a pretty girl; there is merely something desirable too about the pretty girl that is yet to lay beside you. Don Juan used the same line on every woman, the same key to open every door, and this consideration above all else infuriates me, for why should we believe in anything, if everything can be achieved through trickery? Some say it isn't the words, but the voice that speaks them, the underlying connection, to which I call bullshit, for keys can fall into anybody's hands and I have bared witness to the same kinds of keys being used by many different hands. But what am I to do? Cling to my dying hope that this perspective is surely mistaken and that love lives though hidden as it may be, or do i accept and move on from there to live in the best way that this earth will allow me. I have only one plausible option to choose, for I can tell you where the "Don Juan acceptance' will lead you, at least where it led me; despair. For, I can find no value in hollowness; I will leave it at that for now. And, meaning is everything after all. More on that later.
What else plagues me within this realm, as you may call the negative realm, skeptical realm of thought towards love, negative as in disagreement then, is how incommensurate love can seem to me to be with fucking. For, a horse could give a girl a good fuck, and should he know the right words to say then he just might! And yet, the act is often not referred to as such, often times one calls it 'making love', for now I won't bother acknowledging distinctions in the various flavours of the act which could refute the blurring of making love with fucking (really that different anyway?); I will only take the words, 'making love' for what they seem to represent to me, or linguistically that is, that love can be made in this process, that it is enhanced by engaging in this act. Surely this is undeniable, that fucking someone will bring you closer to them; the more the closer, and is this not strange to anyone?.....
Then my thought is broken and there she is in my arms, exposed in every way and I can't stop myself from longing for the warmth and all of the lure that her body has come to represent to me. Her lips, her skin. And, I admit to myself, that I feel that very connection called 'love' for her, in the way that she means more to me than anyone else I am capable of bringing into mind; not merely because of the aforementioned act, but because of everything else accompanied with that, and the acceptance of everything that I have come to equate with love; the fact that we can do it all together; and I want her beside me. Yet, in comes the oscillation, for when I look at it this way, I still fail to see how a monkey could not take my place. He could accept everything much easier than I, and so could she accept him given the time, of this I need only to appeal to numerous cases in history to prove my point, of girlfriend's filling the place of the boyfriend role with some deuche and some deece (heh) only to love them all equally. All different people, some less valuable than others, all being related to in the same manner, as plaeholders in the role of beloved. The thought can be put simply, humanity undermines love. The love you dreamt of as a child that is. The question then presents itself, and for me, it never stops being asked, does one accept this conclusion, or hold on to their melancholy hope. I hold on though not without constant temptation of letting go, for in doing so I hold onto the very meaning of my existence. The fact that I am atheist may bare some relevance here, but that's of another concern. I have experienced the meaninglessness of artful deception, yet so artful it would have to be all over again if I were to find her, given what I've learned of the game. precisely why it is so painful a hope, for I know that I will never transcend what it means here, and I wish for it ro exist within the heavens. But, I despise more than anything those who decieve unknowingly, for at least Don Juan knew what he was doing; for some to sit there and actually claim to have become that very thing which they pretend to be to meet the need of the circumstances; oh this sickens me for it represents the absence of all dignity; such a state is so hard to swallow, yet constantly surrounding us. Perhaps I hold on to an impossible hope that there is something real, all the same I will maintain my grip and refuse to have my clinging fingers peeled from this last scrauny branch, so long as the hanging on means something to me, I will remain melancholy, for this disposition still strikes me as superior to a world without hope of love. I have already in so many ways allowed for humanity to undermine the very thing which renders it all meaningful. Yet I refuse to stop looking for new ways that will enable this hope to live on.