Profoundly low. Will things get better for me? Bad MC day. I could cry. I am just bad at being social. Fuck. I need help, of some sort. The fucking newly light nights perturb, giving me no place to hide my loneliness. But it's not loneliness per se: it's past and present loneliness, skipping relentless and sore into a pained future, looking back on a pained past. When in school I had what it wouldn't be an overexaggeration to call almost a nervous breakdown, because I was alone. Subsequently, I became an alcoholic and the problem calmed down. Subsequently I became obsessed with studying, and it stayed calmed down. But it has reared its head, as this blog testifies. And i'm in exactly the same situation.
But more concrete. For, as has been more than intimated, i think that the girl indeed likes me. But the last two weeks have been, from my perspective, shit. And indeed if it's only from my perspective, still it's my perspective that is making me miserable. So i need to change my perspective. I need, as it were, to bracket the external world. But that world pulls me back in, and burns. When i'm at home, i'm alone, tho with family. And I seldom get too badly depressed, since distracted. But here....I'm not sleeping, I have no strength. Exactly like what happened previously, in school. I need help.

Is depression occurrent or perdurant? For I fear I am thus. Sleeping ill, full of self-recriminations in a most beastly tone. the cause? well guess! mein beliebtes bleibt von mir entfernt. But the most recriminatory, in this recriminationary time, is that we still don't recriminate. Ok, that doesn't make any sense whatsoever. But I do need to analyse my pain, that it may be loosened up, like the gut-blocking turd it is ( for as before remarked, my gut is where I feel, and I wake up these mornings damnably anxious). So what to say, what to do? I need to recall that I am me, and am not them, and therefore can't be held accountable to the same standards. This sounds to a certain extent daft, I know. But is at least somewhat true. Also, the most recriminatory is that I feel like MC has been giving me hints which I haven't taken, and the opportunity may have been missed. Because it's only seldom that we see each other. And time is running out. And all my hopes for this year were pinned on her. And the cosmos is empty apart from us. I've been troubled with some self-harming ideation, on which i will never act, but tis still disturbing. I need to regain equilibrium and, to repeat it yet again, learn to be auto kath'hauto before I be pros ti. I need on all hope to strangle it to jump on it and gnaw its neck. If I am lucky....but i am not lucky. Am I predestined always alone to be? That's what it feels like, and that's what attrists. But it may be false. I don't know. Really, simply to be sometimes is truly heroic. What a fucking stupid thing to say.

Unhappy. Work is problematic, MC action isn't and won't be at least until next week and probably not even then, i'm tired, there's an unhappy gutweh, my room is untidy and recognised as such, there's an unhappy gutweh, i'm tired, MC action isn't and work is problematic. In situations such as these the main thing is to keep breathing, not to let one's anxieties cause one to skotodinein, to spiral into darkness, not from wonder but from woe. Why are things - comparatively speaking - so difficult? And in this comparatively speaking all is revealed. For cmon da fuck. My room will be fine, my gutweh will cease, work will fall together. I should count my blessings, and let a smile be my umbrella, tho a frown is, it must be admitted, a much better one. But one! That I should fall in das Man, the one! And be like them! That I should be hen, and not aoriston! For I'm not at present thinkable (vide. Ar. Mph bk4 ch4-6). It makes one one-der that I, ebenbild der Gottheit, not arseholicular in any potent sense, bearer of positive qualities should waste away ein-sam, never Zwei, and always thus in Ver-zwei-flung. But my christ I drei! Yet I vier that nothing good will happen; I cinque so low before, into the circle of the self, that to pull os out, and to live with others, shenaniganly ( for http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=7009115265903181305sechs is important) and otherwise is impossible..I'm too sept in my ways! But let us tarry slightly, reader, and separate the huit from the tares. Hope, as it has been remarked upon, eternally bleeds and bleeds eternal. And to the extent that life is like a lottery, only shit, it is the case that to be in it one must in it, and i am at least formally in it. I have a location in space, and time, qualified quantities and quantified quantities; i'm wearing clothes and sitting am writing an essay and being hurt my the slings and cuntrows of outrageous fortune. So as I say, formally i'm in it. I can't think of any suitable pun for nine unfortunately, but i'm not going to let this tarassei me: I'll be zehn about it.

Lorks a lordy i'm predictable. Despite my sane advice to myself not to let my good plan harden and become an obsession, my good plan hardened and became an obsession thru a harsh night and a poor day capt by a negative tokenlet. First, the fond fantasies of which i'd been free for a while, letting things happen, returned. Fond they were, and fooooolish. Shitwich. The day, I went to a boring class with the hope of seeing here, she didn't arrive. But all my hopes were pinned on dinner. We sit and bam! Admittedly, the etiquette dictates that she don't sit with me. But we didn't see each other after either, and I go home sadhearted, aware that Tuesday is my best herday, and that the opportunity to formulate my plan will thus almost inevitably not occur this week, and so another week is gone. Concrete hopes and plans suck, especially in such a variableful environment as social interaction. BUT MOTHERFUCK GODDAMMIT TO SHIT, IS MY PLAN CONDEMNED TO GATHER MUST WITH ALL THE OTHER POSSIBILIA, SUCH AS THE PROOF OR DISPROOF OF THE CONTINUUM HYPOTHESIS??? That one can lack occasion, and potentially nothing else. For that is all i appear to be lacking, and moreover it's a much more concrete occasion that i lack, namely and simply the occasion to talk one-one with her.
Therapy: This is what is. I am condemned to by room for another night. Something may happen again in future: put the plan in your back pocket and let it gather dust, and just merely concentrate on the happiness of working and abstractly hoping.

Funnily enough, the more i excogitate certain matters, the more it appears that she has been hinting to me. but I may be overreading things.

Blogging in an attempt to formulate a plan. Now there have been little concrete, tho many abstract indications, some detailed pastwise, other more present. It is my sense that she does like me. Moreover, I guess I may as well test the waters; at this stage there is little left to lose. So I need to propose something. But what? This is my question. There are several things here: first, I can make no concrete plans, along the lines of when x happens,i'll do y, for experience teaches that there is seldom a coincidence between the abstract and the concrete. Rather what I need is plans for various eventualities. So if x then y. Think a largeish computer program. But what is there? Well, step 1, i will see if there's anything on at the cinema...scratch that, i've just had a good idea. I will find and dl a film that pertains to both of our interests. Yes! Then, i'll casually mention it. If she says, oh, i'd like to see it then we're laughing. It is concievable that she hinted at something of this kidney last week.
OK, now the second part of the blog is not the plan per se, but rather plan theory, and specifically my attitude towards the plan. I can't assume that the plan will come to fruition either now or in the next n weeks. But let it rest. I am happy with my plan.

Ah, days. It's those things that aren't meant to hurt one that do so; an off hand remark on the part of my friend that i go home most weekends. This is true; but the implication, that i have nothing to do here, which he nevertheless knows, that he knows it attrists. The days have been but good. But there is a paradox: in order not to be pained, i must not hope concretely. But if I don't hope concretely i don't plan, for these are more or less synonymous. The betristfulest: that it is almost certain that we like each other, but that for want of an occasion nothing is to happen. But well, we are revolving, in this blog, in circles.

Ah life, the emotions hold themselves much better today. Yesterday I was all sur toute joie pour l'etrangler j'ai fait le bond sourde (?) de la bete feroce, today my douleur is plus tranquille. I think the important thing is to hope, but not concretely hope. But this I mean let the fond fantasies play, because quite simply they make me happy; I don't have the constitution to be dmom, really, perhaps no-one does. The nature of my violent overreactions is interesting in itself; it is part and parcel of emotional thinking: nothing is done by halfs. But the doulorous counterpoint to the above is that my thiseved contentitude owes it's existence to tokens of esteem from my beliked, little ones indeed, but ones nonetheless. But the weekend looms with nothing to do, although let's not let facts spoil mood.

CUUUUUUUUUUNT. Compelled twice to blog away the pain. Dinner with her. Bad. Well, I exaggerate. But not good. I'm just a fucking spasticwit. Truly, I am upset. FUCK. Back now at home with nothing but the gloam of the computer screen, the lone of the voice, the utter abeyance that results when one realizes that it's too much to call os TMWP, for the first two words misrepresent mightily the state of affairs. For I am outis, Meon. Yes; when MC be MC in this blog, and a definite description of me be TMWP, so hereafter i'm not Watt, for that suggests an interrogative, and we know from Heidegger that Dasein aka TM is the interrogating animal, and I am not TM, therefore just Meon. Better of course would be or even to refuse to use the indexical consisting entirely of the first letter of indexical.
But such philological pleasanteries cannot console me now. For what has been realized is the crushing of the hopes which malgre moi-meme I must and had to continue to cherish. Now nothing. For opportunities will not present themselves again this week, or the next x weeks. And this will almost inevitably, when i reread this in 6 or so weeks, prove to be the case.
And it may seem stupid, indeed it is, adolescently so, but at present I have the sense of the utter aphorismenos eis dusangelion eatou. That there is no overseeing providence, nor failing that a rhyme or reason. Again, let me reiterate that one shouldn't judge these learian thoughts a) on their cause b) until one has leered the kelch. For christbechristed Christ but I - am - trying. The ease , my god, the ease of others. What to do? a) tonight b) the next x days. Ultimately what can I do? This fit will pass and scab, the slight trails will be lighted up again; when I go out at present I'll begin the process of analysing the black box in my head ( unpack the metaphor yourself). I'll most probably convince myself of something, a tokenlet, like a universe that takes away all and leaves a watch on a dessert for shits and giggles (k, this is overly obscure). Imagine, tho you don't know what I look like, a camera above me slowly zooming out, to me becoming eventually a speck, an ant like apparently appears in the film the third man. Ah fuck it, i can't be bothered no more. Fuck you, cosmo!

Day bloggin'

Not, this time, on account of any acute pain, but rather a dull mischievous throb. A week was passed ataraxic at home, and i've returned to nichtsberg, wherein my plan to lasciare ogni speranza, cept the mild, unattainable ones such as the hope for the afterlife, but not that, worked well for the first but is grating now we've reached the second day. Little MC shenanigans have been or are expected to be called. There is an item: but I don't want to expose it on account of thereby, tho this is truly ridiculous, deanonymising myself or her: suffice it to say, the possibility that any interest she may have in me is as a means and not an end. Hopefully i'm wrong, but really, what does it matter? I think I am fairly resolved to be going back home in a couple of months to a friendless home, with all my imperfections, having failed at my appointed task of which I wrote those months ago and which this blog has chronicled. One must learn to love o\s. But well: the second most platitudinous platitude is: while I live, I hope.