Ok, So I’ve given in to the lure of having a public diary where random people can stare at my inchoate emotions, recorded on the internet (I hate technology) and then confirm the hopelessness of my personality. Yea, I kind of sort of already write in three journals, but hell, what’s another one? I’m a writer anyway so I guess it’s beneficial.

I haven’t been thinking about Brendan for a week or so, which is entirely weird because not too long ago I was infatuated with him. Of course, then again I could be overlooking the fact that I don’t even know him. But I have a summary of his soul. The few times we’ve talked I’ve just wanted to look at him and say “You’re such a beautiful person” and then go live in the woods and shun the society that so often shuns me. I don’t know, I’m such a pariah. I think the funniest thing about me is that I’m so entirely specious. Everyone has this misconception of me.

But there’s this sort of satisfaction that comes from being a nonentity. I like the idea of people seeing me fallaciously. Maybe I sound sinister with all this praise I’m devoting to duplicity, but it’s so great to be equivocal. Few people really know me, more specifically only Lara, Dave, Joe, and probably Brendan, because he’s one of those people that you can be totally translucent with. The other day I just sat down and stared at the wall and said “Oh God, I’m so lonely.” And it’s true. I don’t have a big circle of friends and I’m not the social butterfly I used to be. But I don't really think it matters, and I don’t intend to cement fleeting depressions into the framework of my life.

There are so few people that you just really connect with and I’m lucky to have found some, even if it’s not a multitude.

I keep thinking of Alex incessantly. The other day in class we were just discussing random things and he said that he wants to live in the woods and be a bum, and travel and write about the whole thing. I think there’s this tragic longing in him. I don’t know. I’m not going to analyze, because I abhor pointless attempts at defining things, but all I know is he writes beautifully. My sole intention for the rest of the year is “read Alex’s writings.” There is this sheerness that is reflected in everything about him. I’m writing a story about him called “Veiled Blue,” which is two thirds of the way completed. He’s one of those vague people that you just feel a mystical relation to.

I’m trying not to think about love. I guess it’s because I’ve already gone through that “what’s wrong with me, why am I such a loser, all my friends are adored, and I’m just an idiot” phase and it’s all so elementary and I’m ready to release myself from trite thoughts of self pity. Besides that I’m so meticulous when it comes to love. I know that someone is existing who I am to love madly, but it’s something I have to be so positive about. Because you can’t accept mediocrity when it comes to love. And I’m not going to compromise the most vital part of life. I shouldn’t have to because solitude is a brilliance that can never be surpassed.