I've been so distracted during the term; thoughts about what to do after graduation, my life, and what I want out of it scattered, hanging off places in my brain. Premature thoughts left unfinished at every possible nook and cranny. Messy. Sometimes I think that maybe this entire notion of oneself, what we are, is just this biological structure, a place to momentarily house all the abstractions. But regardless, I let every thought blur and diminish as I plunged into classes, into the neccessity of studying for exams. I've worked and wedged my feet downward through the mud and slush of reports, presentations, and revision. And now that the false purpose has lifted, it's about time for me to become conscious, to give form and coherence to the mystery. But I guess I really don't want to think about my future or anticipate what there is before me because apart from scaring me shitless, it really fucks with my brain.

I've always felt that the world into which we were born is nothing less than a conspiracy against the cultivation of our talent. And it's precisely because the world looks onto our talent with such a frighteningly repulsive indifference that, as artists, we are compelled to make our talent important. We are forced to assess; the things that hurt us and the things which helped us cannot be divorced from each other, we could be helped in a certain way only because we were hurt in a certain way; and our help is simply to be enabled to progress from one conundrum to the next. So we write out of one thing — our experience.

Everything really depends on how relentlessly we force from the experience the last drop, sweet or bitter, it can possibly offer. That is the only real concern of an artist — to recreate out of the disorder of life that order which is art. Therefore, all art; writings, paintings etc are a kind of confession, more or less oblique. It's the main way we give order to this flux which is life and the only way we know to create true art; to be forced to tell the whole damn story, to vomit the anguish, the sorrow and fury up. And that alone has the power to break open the the vaults of the dead and skies behind which prophesying angels hide.

I just got home from a small gathering at T's. I was not really in the mood to socialize but I'm glad I went. Everyone there was witty. It was a good mix; a philosophy student, a poet, a composer, several musicians, a painter, about eight people around a table, all intellectuals and artists, and all of them friends, all drunk on champagne — the empty bottles littered the table — celebrating T's new job. They laughed and poked fun and quoted each other, while I sat and marveled. It was a bright, cliquey, old-fashioned, unselfconscious gathering of people, neither fashionable nor wealthy, but all of them talented, all of them incredible; you can praise them, disagree with them, quote them, disbelieve them, glorify or vilify them. About the only thing you can't do is ignore them.

It occurred to me then that despite how different our modes of expression were, we're all the same and we want the same things. We're not ones to choose between being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. We want  to go mad by ricocheting in between. We want to live in all the shades, tones, and variations of mental and physical experience possible in life. And we want to change things.