Who wants flowers when you're dead? Nobody.
Fifty-fifth Entry. Maybe it is love.
07-31-2003 | 2:05 a.m.

Yes, this one is late, too.

7:55 PM

Things are always better the first time around with me. No revision, no second-guessing, just the purity of a single moment's truth. There really are times when thinking only complicates things and makes them worse for the wear and tear of that fraction of a second. I kid you not, you'll beleive it soon enough if you don't already.

I realize that art is only beautiful when it comes from the heart. It's not hard to come to that epiphany, and it's hard for people to not agree with. However, it's hard to take it to heart sometimes. You see all these talented people who draw all these gorgeous things, or they create masterpiece sculptures, or perhaps they write a novel that captivates its readers. I know that right now I could right a short story that will have you cry, or swell with the beautiful knowledge that life is amazing...only three pages, but I won't really mean any of those words. None of it will come from my heart. It will be your heart that gives it the meaning.

I don't deny that I'm a very talented person. I'm a decent writter. I'm a decent artist. I'm a decent person. Usually, when I put a little effort into something, I'll get some praise for it. Not because it's "the right thing to do," but because people actually enjoyed what I offered them. I don't mean any of it, though. None of it comes from my heart, and it's all just empty talent. You see, I'm the type of person who wants to create the beauty of the soul while putting no soul into it whatsoever. It's something I've actually grown to be rather good at. Perhaps it's my greatest talent of all. The only problem is, I wish I had at least one thing that I put my entire soul into...

It's strange that I'm a person who comes from the heart, but yet I can't produce anything that's from the heart. Well, my heart at least. I came close to it, today. With a drawing I scribbled with some words tied into it. It was on one of the folded sides of a note I gave to someone today. I came close with that passing thought in the previous entry. I come close on occassion, but never close enough to actually merit my final congratulations.

I wonder why my soul chose to be me. Why not some bug? Or perhaps an alien on a more fitting planet? Perhaps a puppy, or a leaf? I think that it has something to do with the following: music-a possibility, but I don't really buy into that theory much...I'm not terribly absorbed with music...I'm your average listener, it fuels me and magnifies my emotions when I feel like giving in; being on top and making a difference-humans rule this world with a space-age plastic fist that is unbreakable even in the space we have managed to explore...maybe I want to be apart of that ruling faction and make it a better place for my self and all the other living and nonliving things out there; love-I give this the most credit...animals love each other but few actually spend their lives together...and few animals have so many different ways of expressing that love...and few know all the glories of touch and pain and detatchment..Humans are lucky to have the capacity to love they way they do, and though not all use their full capacity, it's still good to have it there all the same. Maybe it is love, and maybe I'll find it one day.

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Flashes of High School
Summer of Change
No Brass, No ammo
Lost in Translation

Last Five

And that's that.
Referenced #2
To write them.
Heart vs mind.