wow. what the fuck.

woah. it seems like everything in my life is pointing toward a certain direction. and i don't want to take that direction... it's almost like every practical aspect of my life is pointing toward it, and every artistic aspect is pointing the opposite fucking direction.

i mean - the direction that i feel i am being persuaded to go to - i will get money from, and probably a job at the end of it, a job that would most probably fit in with my personality quite well.

the direction, or rather, the no direction of staying afloat and drifting between the proximities of where i am now, wants me to stay here because ... going away doesn't feel right.

when i watched 'into the wild', he read a passage in a book, and in there it said, to paraphrase it,
'the secret of happiness is thus; to do a job one feels is worth something, to have a small group of friends, to give yourself alone time and indulge yourself in your hobbies.'



let me tell you what i do know: i certainly feel as though i know that nobody's really there for me anymore. like a hundred percent. i cultivate friendships but under tension they snap like fragile twigs. and then it seems that i have aquantances and not friendships. and that would be okay if i had some strong bonds that i could rely upon. but i don't feel as though i do have that. it's difficult for me to admit that i feel like my existence is this much of a mess because i definitely believe in solopsism, and therefore i should feel as though my life is my own fate, but i find it hard to believe sometimes. when i walk in the green and i watch as all the animals co-exist with one another i find it hard to believe in my, afore-claimed significance in this world. or rather, my significance in creating this world. i am not an artist. is my imagination that vast that i could assign each thing a touch, a smell, a word? or is that an act of narcassism in its truest form?