Seraphtrev's Random Thoughts

Some Thoughts on Misanthropy
Here's another one, just 'cause I'm in the writing mood. It's sort of a stream-of-consciousness thing, so leave all grammar and coherency expectations at the door. ^_^ *** I would really like it if I were able to hate people. It would be so much easier for me if I could condemn the human race and just fold into myself. But every once in a while, I see something that reminds me why I can't seclude myself forever. For instance, the other day I saw this girl walking down the street. She wasn't remarkably gorgeous, but she was pretty enough, with lovely blond hair that was halfway between short and long, just barely brushing her chin. She walked with purpose: quick determined steps, head down, one arm clutching a brown leather purse. About every fifth step, she would brush her hair back from her face. Her fingers would catch the offending strands, then curl delicately around one perfectly small ear, the heel of her hand brushing her cheek softly. She’d hold her hand there for a moment longer than necessary, then drop it to her side again. A few minutes later the hair would escape, falling down and hiding her face again and she’d repeat the gesture. It was such an unconsciously sensual act, and it made her beautiful to me. Or there was the boy on the bus. I think he was Indian but I can’t be sure. His hair was very dark and not cut well, but his face was cut perfectly. A small, perfect nose, dark eyes framed with darker lashes, and a heartbreaking mouth. He was an odd blend of masculine and feminine, a sexy androgyne. He was very good looking, in other words, but that wasn’t what made him beautiful to me. What made him beautiful was the way he smiled to himself at nothing in particular – a small, secret smile that reached his inward-looking eyes. I wish I could have seen what he was seeing. Actually, I think I’m justified in my misanthropy. What makes people ugly is other people. They modify their behavior into acceptable/not acceptable to fit in with society. But in those unguarded moments, when they think no one is looking, they almost become perfect. Well, what do you know? I’ve actually agreed with Rousseau on something. : )

Writer's Block
I want to write. I really do. But sometimes I wonder if I can. Every thought, every feeling that I have has already been expressed by someone, and probably much better than I’ll ever be able to. And even if I think I have an original idea, I can’t be sure if it is truly mine or if it has merely been planted into my subconscious by something I’ve seen or read. That thought terrifies me into silence. I’m frightened of the wonderful works of the past. In today’s world, we can know everything. Any information we need is only a click of the mouse away. While this certainly has its advantages, I feel like it’s too much sometimes. I envy the writers of before who, compared to us, were relatively isolated. They could be sure their thoughts were their own. And though I sometimes feel my writing is all right, it isn’t enough for me. I want to create something *great*; I want to make something beautiful. I know it’s vain of me, but it’s what I want more than anything. But how can I? Writing instructors always say to write what you know, but I’ve always hated reading fictionalized versions of people’s lives. It always feels vaguely pornographic to me, like I’m seeing something I shouldn’t be seeing. But what’s left then? The great authors I study seemed to have been born with some innate sense of the terrible and the beautiful, which is something I feel I lack. The desire to create is in me, but I don’t have the material! Even Michelangelo would have been hard pressed to create the David without stone. Again, I sound vain. I doubt I’ll ever be a Michelangelo, or a Shakespeare, or a Bronte, but I want to *try.*

January 21, 2001
Well! Here I am! Since this little page is all her fault, I am going to dedicate my first entry to my dearest Comrade. We've been friends for eight years! (I know of countries that haven't lasted that long!) I am eternally grateful to my father for giving me a last name that begins with "St" so that I would have the opportunity to sit in front of you in sixth grade homeroom. Otherwise, I think I'd be very lonely in my various obsessions. So here's to you, dear. I don't know where I'd be without you. ^_^