Some things to ponder on. I tend to be someone to whom people go with problems, that is, resolvable problems not general moany problems. Because I think logically. Now I myself have a problem, which i can't figure out. The thing is this: i would like, and i think internet broad what I talk at would like too, that internet broad and I meet. But I don't know how - quite literally - to go about asking. Perhaps it's rejection fears, that of putting myself out there. I'm tired, I stop.

Ah, days, days. Well. Hmmm. Nothing to report in fact in fact. Netful dalliance potentially. It's a very nice broad, funny etc. My day-to-day life is replete with awful social interactions, mainly at dinner times, which have almost entirely ceased to bother me. Not that i've given up hope or nuffin, just that i've gone past the stage of being disappointedly surprised. tis de rigueur. Also replete with shyly flirtations with flirtations working, like old gravity, over a large distance, on account of my praeternatural goodlookingness. So I guess the plan - such as it is - in this patriarchical society, is that it falls to me to try and initiate something w Ihre Durchlaucht (god, that's quite a clever pun), puzzle sweat and puke in anxiety thereover, succeed offchancedly, and live foreoverafterinagloriousundifferentiatedglow.

the eternal possibility-of-shenanigans draws us on

frei nach goethe.

A tough week last but non at least introspective, now i'm back to the uni and back to the bemoaning tho i'm in good mood now. Little concrete possibilities are offering themselves at the moment. Interesting observation: on the dating site i message people who are unlikely to message me back; i never realized i was doing this until i reflected on it but it's clear i'm dooming myself to failure thereby. There remains the meatspace maedchen. Who knows, something might happen. I don't really have any desire of friends, just a girlfriend. And not just shenaniganicly speaking, not primarily in fact. Someone to feel close to i guess, to care for and be cared for by. Aw shucks, the necessity of bathos. Potentially one on said site, tho i fear it's a shy-ster. Hinauf. Enough.

Welches Land? Cornwall. It - as inevitable - saturdays. Rain taps on the window. Same old story. But i have something to talk about. It is the already noted problem that i'm obsessed with how people perceive me, and/therefore i'm unhappy with the train of my life. I need to accept my einsamkeit, that one can only put oneself out there, that things need to happen to one. True? Self-deception? I don't know. If only I was what I was like a chair is a chair (forgive the Sartreism). Sartre makes this big thing of the fundamental project. But does not my fundamental project determine me as much as any Freudian drive? But the thing is I should relish my aloneness, find things to do other than pine thereover. And I do. But I could do more, so my thoughts didn't turn so often fantastic. This blog is in fact a good outlet, but it takes up only 20 minutes. I should write. Writing will soothe all pains. But above all come to accept myself somehow. I think i'm still holding out for literally the deus ex machina. I anxiously check my email constantly, never to have recieved everything. I build up the checkpoints of the week, then lament their inevitable passing. I want to be happened to. But this is bad thinking. I need opportunities. This is purely venting, with no interest in coherence or humour.

Loooow- that I wouldn't say bou to a gooose is my problem. And i like to lie on my side in the rain. Back home, the time now punctuated - six weeks and nothing. Seeds, indeed spermata of life, but as yet neither flower nor fruit. It must be possible to take one's existence for one's own. To live in the facts, and accept them while also trying to change them. There are two things: one should propel oneself forward, but one must also heed the now. That I am aphorismenos eis dusangelion emautou, that outis me russetai from the circle of self, and that tho tuche it may happen that there be a time when all slathers out, joyful into a moment; it may also not, and lonely I'll grow lonelier, older and decrepiter; this is a fact. It is however my fact. No. Sartre. No. The self is an illusion.
But we are trapped. Our facticities overwhelm. Who will release me from the bullshit of the thoughts these?

Mild disappointment and nothing better to do compels me to tinkle somewhat the plastic. Begin patheticness: the frauly female that I covet and I's interactions today weren't as top notch as could have been. I guess the lesson is that I shouldn't overanalyse things. That would certainly be conventional wisdom. The reason being there is too many variables, too many possible interpretations for each and every human deed. This seems hard to deny. But, then, the devil's in the details. Mentalists and such like see so much more than us, and it must be assumed that it's there to be seen. That small things betoken past themselves. This is also conventional wisdom. I've a weeks holiday, and my fond fantasies had me imagining that there would have been some concretum that I could have taken home with me, a certain sign and addition to the treasures of my spirit. But no. I go home empty handed. And until there is some such sign, the scary, scary possibility rests that it's all in my head, that these transports have no foundation, and that the progress I percieved myself to have made have been misinterpretations, that I am still enclosed entirely within myself. How can one know - to put it poetically - if one is really alive in that sense without evidence? How know the external world exists when all we have are our ideas? And does that not open up great possibilities of puns? Of the real danger of solipsism right here?
Ultimately - tho in fact this is very likely not the case, or at least oftentimes not the case - there must come a time when one knows. I have known before, with the aforementioned 1st year girl. But she dished out Evidenz like it was butterscotch. This one but don't. It is halt possible that... well, i'm repeating myself here, really just typing to time waste.
Come on, you big bloody life, life me!

Well, the plan for socialization continues apace. The cinema was natch uneventful, and today, there was more evidence that the Maedchen and I could be on the same page, shenanigans wise. I just don't know! Dem bitchez are straight inscrutable, at least to me. So I'm going to lapse into pathetic analysis mode. It is not often I feel a rapport with people, that I connect with them, especially new people. And when I do, I tend not to to such an extent as I am doing. I like talking to her. But ------------ how do I know this isn't just normal sociality, the product of a social girl misinterpreted by an unsocial man. Time, I guess, will tell. It's interesting, I seem to be at a similar crossroads to the one I was at before coming back to university. There is a future progression, or rather there will be. Will what I perceive to be there prove in fact not to be and to never have been, and will these days buoyed by a concrete as opposed to an abstract hope be looked upon ruefully?
There is an objective psychological fact of the matter at the moment, in her brain, which is in fact most likely located at present 2 floors above me. Do her thoughts turn mewards, as mine herwards? Or is it horrendous to say just a figment of my unschooled imagination: is there concretely nothing in her neurons pertaining to me? This, I guess, is living. I was going to say it would be more lively had I a better set from which to make my inductions, but that's probably not the case. This is living. Weird to be human, to be moved so much by potential fictions: to be so thoroughly rent with possibility.
But back to more pragmatic concerns. The main thing now is to get her number, arrange some sort of meet, some sort of out of school thing. It is possible and necessary to do this without giving the game away, without exposing myself to rejection. Ultimately perhaps the time will come for such exposure. Am I ready for it?
I'm not generally a negative person, but I'd like to end on a suckingly negative subjunctive exclamatory phrase: oh that her neurons might not be firing!

Oh that I were fey! Should it not be am I fey? Are all these perorations fey?

http://www.learnersdictionary.net/dictionary/fey

Well, i'm a hero. That is, i'm going to the cinema with people outside my immediate family, in about 40 minutes. i'm not going to let myself get depressed about how this warrants a blog, because it's really a good thing i'm doing, tho i'd rather stay pascalesque in my room. When there is one cause of nervousness, i have noted, the others all barge in, until one can't look sideways w/out being overwhelmed with angst. Almost such is me now. The time trundles by.