Help Me Tear Down My Reason

I hear that never using the back space key is good advice. Questionable advice, in my opinion but it was not given to me.

I'm having a crisis of faith. I haven't had the occasion until tonight to put any serious thought into what I might say in this oxymoron that is blog, a public forum for private thoughts. A means to an end that I never sought before, in more traditional forms. But I can promise this will not be one of my favorite posts.

I’ve made many false starts, in my head, in the instances before I fall asleep at night or when my eyes glaze over from boredom in my least favorite class. The problem seems to be that at the current position I am in, I can either engage in mental masturbation and muse pseudo-profoundly on whatever effervescent prettiness I can catch or I can fall into a never-ending circle of self-sucking and discuss the “why” of blogging.

So given the choice of two evils, I’ll opt for a little of both.

Is historical perspective anywhere near as interesting as I seem to presume it to be? Should I be including things that are contemporaneous?
Do we really need to know about heartbreak?
Or the ineffectuality of modern life?
Or golden afternoons?

If I can’t answer these questions, should I even bother?

Ironically, like a warm wet spot on my blue jeans, I find myself inarticulate and yet I stand accused of talking without communicating. Involving unnecessary words in sentences where they do not belong. Perhaps academia is wearing me down; perhaps some things cannot be said without referring back to M-W for the correct spelling of the word chartreuse.

Perhaps Graham as it right, it’s nearly impossible to pee when there’s someone listening in the next stall. However as I have previously mentioned, journals or diaries have never been my style. Discourses with imaginary friends yes, journals no.

And the list of taboo subjects grows longer and longer. I am accused of being preoccupied with sex, however death is out of the question (cliché of course) and my field of study concerns itself with only two things, sex and death.

And so, rendered voiceless by the silent masses, I leave you with:

Touché