i'm sick of writing in this fucking thing. i'm in a terrible mood. i think i hate communication. fuck communication, its supposed to be So Great but half the time all it does is hurt people by informing them of things they never wanted to know; finally engendering a greater internalization than before. communication isolates. i hate the idea that everytime someone hears me speak or reads this diary, the words are filed away into a mental dossier the observer has of my character. its unfair- most of the things that reflect the true, whole individual are unsaid, are unspeakable. when one bears that in mind, every effort to communicate one makes has to be so layered, so calculated. i'm not capable of doing the math before i speak. i just want to put words out there and forget about them. i dont think my words should be in any way savored or overanalyzed. they should be taken for what they are- a my simple take on language- the codification of common cultural reference points used to describe ideas; ideas which, for me, are always changing; my thoughts are not typically static enough to justify revisiting, rereading, rehearing. so i'm pulling a maya angelou and withdrawing from speech. i'm going to concentrate all of my efforts on metamorphosis. i'll stop being a participating, communicating member of society and i'll transform into a symbiot... a lamprey, maybe...and attach myself to time. i'll work my way under the skin of that great anisotropic monster, and ride time like a dolphin. absolved of the burden of responsibility for my own movement through life, i'll relax, letting "time's great arrow" propel me ever forward. maybe in my embrace of abandon i'll find that the roar of time's unforgiving, unflinching directionality drowns out anything i might have to say. hear nothing, lose my voice, laryngitis-style. this is my Plan to Stop Misconstruing Other People and Reject Having My Shit Misinterpreted. fuck it. i'm going to quote instead of update. fuck it. fuck me.
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Minuscule, with its tiny black body, the insect had six transparent legs with a dark stain at their extremities. Only by concentrating could you spot its antennas, also translucid, permanently agitating. It traversed patiently the hills and valleys of the paper of poor quality, it plunged between the pages to emerge again in the yellow and shiny light, paying no attention to the complicated psychic processes inside Golyadkin's mind or to the black letters that dwarfed it, where Golyadkin's delirium was codified. Claws, tiny and powerful, kept it well anchored to its book, to its universe where it had been born, and no matter how hard you blew, you couldn't hurl it away. It paused for only an instant, to face the hurricane, glued its guts against the page's coarse rug, then set off again with even and contented steps. No one could wrench it away from its fatherland, where it had found itself and where it would die, turning into a dry little piece of crust at the root of a page. It gnawed, perhaps, from time to time, black or white morsels from the weft's fiber. It inserted its ovipositor into the dot above the i in Golyadkin and relinquished there the tiny cylindrical tubes containing each a minuscule embryo. It didn't know that its world had meaning, that it could be read, it only lived it and that was enough. Maybe Golyadkin, or maybe myself, whose eye like a billion suns crept up towards it, was the God of this insect, but its nervous ganglions barely managed to keep it alive. I was a God that didn't create it and couldn't save it, forever unknown and undecipherable.
---mircea cartarescu