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More venting. I really am just writing to write. I feel like I want to write. I don’t know what I want anymore. Everything’s so lukewarm. I feel like I’m existing just for the hell of it. All these things I’ve been passionate for have diminished. Drumline, writing, music, art, martial arts. I’m so empty.

I’m in a really hard English class right now. It’s taking tons of work and dedication. I’m not even sure if I care about that class. I think the only reason I’m trying is because it’s one of the few things I count myself skilled in. I do enjoy writing. Maybe because it makes me feel smart. I enjoy writing essays for my English teachers because I’m good at it and they tell me that and it makes me feel good inside. That is why I like English: because I excel and it earns me recognition.

I have about an hour of homework left to do. It’s past midnight. I just see no purpose in anything, but at the same time there’s an obligation to do something. I have to give back to the world, I have to live my life. Why? Because otherwise I’m a bad person. What’s so horrible about being a bad person? Other people’s opinions of me. I usually claim to not care what people think about me, but I care what some people think. If I didn’t care what people thought, I would be out of the closet. I would be the most flaming homosexual in the world. If I didn’t care what people thought, I would be doing absolutely nothing except indulging myself.

Do I only do things because if I don’t I’ll lose the people around me? Why does that sound like such a weak and lame reason to participate in life? I should want to, right? Does anyone else want to? The purpose of humans’ existence is to love. I know that for a fact. But a great part of love is denied me because it involves the perversion of God’s creation.

Why do I do anything in this life? Why do I read? Do I enjoy it? Yes, but why? What is there in all the pages of fantasy that I like to read that brings me enjoyment? I know I like to read literature because I always see a little bit of myself in whatever I’m reading. Hester Prynne out of The Scarlet Letter is me, as is Dimmesdale. They both bury their feelings deep inside them because their feelings are sinful. They treat the things that make them happy as sins because we all know that any form of joy we feel is automatically wrong. If it makes me happy, shouldn’t I be allowed to be gay? Anyway, back to the fantasy reading. It used to be that I read it for this deep pining I had for a different world where I could earn glory and honor for some great heroism. Why do I read it now? Because I have hope that there really is magic in the world? That all of this myth might actually be true and the world is really more mystical and interesting? That must be it.

Why do I draw? Once again, because I’m good at it. It gives me something to do and I like to earn recognition for my drawings. Why do I write? Self-expression? I have experienced the satisfaction that comes with the immaculate identification of my inner being. I think that is also a reason for my drawing: the perfection of my depictions of what I see. To create as God has created. That is why I write and draw: so that I may create and be like God. I don’t know how I know. Maybe I’m making myself believe that because I just want so badly to know what’s wrong with me, to know what my purpose is.

That’s the only reason I fell in love with music so much. I had no identity. I had no life. I was an anime freak and that’s all I knew about myself. Ironically, it was a kid at school making fun of me who caused me to realize that. Then I discovered the concept of pouring myself into a creation of music and choreography. It was ecstasy. It was creation.

I can only wish that I came up with this idea of creation on my own. I owe that to J.R.R. Tolkien, the greatest author who ever lived. I suppose it has been shown me in other ways before he did, but it finally came clear when it was explained in his preface to The Silmarillion.

Why do I do martial arts? I have fun fighting. Is that just the small sliver of straightness left in me? That last ounce of testosterone struggling to prevail in my effeminate psyche? I feel some sort of connection to those monks of ancient China who studied tirelessly to perfect this art form. It is the imitation of nature, the most primal and perfect form of God’s creation, uncorrupted by humanity and sin. That is why I do martial arts: to imitate nature, to revert to my instincts given to me by God. The only true good in the world. And that is my philosophy. That I have uncovered on my own and I take pride in that.

Self-revelation truly is the greatest of human longings. To know one’s self. Am I presumptuous in thinking that I have achieved that. If I had then I would probably have a more perfect life, so I will not assume that. I will know that I have uncovered more of who I am and why I am. This has been rewarding indeed.


I have had another revelation. I pondered the reason for our desire as humans for self-revlelation and I concluded that we desire to know who we are and why we are alive because our ability for abstract thought has given us the capacity to ask such questions. God has planned this so that we may seek his truth in this matter. Oh, the joys of the Lord our God. How boundless and satisfying they are.

This must be what the monks did in their meditation. This is my meditation. Writing at a keyboard. The accessibility of this recording device has made it easier to record my realizations. My lack of direction spurred me to contemplate the motives in my life and I identified them. My diagnoses must be accurate because they feel so write. To know that one of my greatest desires is to be like God is a comforting and encouraging thing. Maybe the fact that I could see what I wrote and read over it greater developed my thought processes and that is why it’s easier to meditate in this fashion. I’m going to meditate like this more often on all sorts of issues like bible verses and literature. I feel so complete right now. But I’m thirsty, so I’m going to get a drink.