i am not a writer

i think somethings wrong in my head because we talked about the great gatsby when we read it and how the entire thing is fraught with symbolism and someone once said it makes them sick and it made me wonder why thats such a problem and isnt all life one giant slew of symbolism. i mean isnt everything a symbol like mostly anything we can ever think about is non natural meaning and i mean thats all anything ever is in my head. remember when we talked about black holes and it was funny to me like it was meant to be because black holes always had a special meaning and just why cant anyone see that conversation was not just about black holes for me.

this is about me and if you read it you will think it is about you because youre keen to think youre the first thing on my mind and so i hate you for that. in part because mostly youre right and in part because i am so much more of a person than youve given me the chance to show and you think so much less of me than is deserved even though you might just think wonderfully of me. and for this i cannot do it. because you are too immature and fail to see critically how anything other than your fine point of view is possible. you never ask questions. only tell the ‘answer.’ and i have a lot to give.

we can kiss, but if you knew me you might hate me.

it is all too simple

to cast about pretty

(and much less so, witty)

axioms. you speak of truths

but only spew words

stronger than your own heart

because idealistically

your life is definitively

less than your passion

to confine it.

mean what you say

but cant say what you mean?

you do not have a right to feel anything about this at all. it was your mistake as much as it was his. you act like the victim, and its awfully audacious of you to dare to suggest that you meant anything in all this. this does not include you. this meant something to me and i hate that you ruined it for me.

the fire fucked me up so bad, man. or maybe i did it all on my own.

in cognition and consciousness, weve been discussing nagels paper, what is it like to be a bat, about how you can never know what it is like to be something else and furthermore what it is like to be someone else. its very interesting, because as people we constantly operate under the assumption that we can connect with others and that there are certain universals (be it language, gestures, concepts) that allow us to communicate and believe that these things mean the same thing to each of us. but this just isnt true and its kindof blowing my mind right now, because how many times a day do you notice that you say something and it doesnt compute the same way for the other person? how many times do you find yourself adjusting your language to find just the right connotation to convey exactly what you mean? the thing is, you can think you understand a person and their experiences but you will only ever understand them in the context of you. the only thing its possible for them to communicate to you is the clumsy words they think will mean exactly what they are trying to tell you, and once you hear them, they are then perceived according to your own experience. i finally watched waking life all the way through yesterday for the first time, and all this aside the movies just amazing, but one quote from the movie that id constantly seen even before id watched it is this:

What is “frustration”? Or what is “anger” or “love”? When I say “love” the sound comes out of my mouth and it hits the other person’s ear, travels through this byzantine conduit in their brain through their memories of love or lack of love. And they register what I’m saying and they say yes they understand, but how do I know? Because words are inert. They’re just symbols. They’re dead. You know? And so much of our experience is intangible. So much of what we perceive cannot be expressed. It’s unspeakable. And yet, you know, when we communicate with one another and we feel that we have connected and we think we’re understood I think we have a feeling of almost spiritual communion. And that feeling may be transient, but I think it’s what we live for.”

we do live for connection, but ultimately, we can never know how real it is. that is not to say we shouldnt try for it, because that feeling of connection is important for a lot of reasons. all im saying is, there is never any way to know anyone elses experiences but our own, because the second we try to make someone else understand it becomes filtered through everything they have experienced. our experiences are the filter through which we see the world and so it all comes down to that pestering thought i often have about how truly connected people can be. reality is subjective and that makes reality our own. we can say we belong to the same reality, but does anyone see the world exactly the way you do? you dont know, and theres no way to find out, so your reality is only yours. so i think the hardest part about communicating properly is coming close to having the other person understand what you truly mean, and this is where, i think, most people go wrong. we communicate to get a point across and not to have our point understood. we want to be understood, but ive noticed, what i do differently from a lot of people when trying to make a point, is fit my language to how i think it will best be recieved as truest to my original communicative intent, and not truest to what i mean. i think its essential to communicate for the other person and not yourself.

this hurts me so much,
not for myself, but for her.
she deserves better.

i am so angry
youve acted so selfishly
you should be ashamed.

i remember being pushed up against the side of the house, outside in the light rain. it was awfully cold and i was only in short sleeves but the only feeling i can remember is you pressed up against me and the warmth of you, your hot wet words in my ear, and your hand loosely around my neck. as if you wanted to be threatening but knew youd never do it. you said you could choke me. you asked what if you choked me. and i said i didnt care. i didnt know if you would.