Speaking of old things

An old journal entry I came upon, dated March 3rd, 2007. Cynical, much?

"Feeling sorry for yourself is never anywhere to start. Upon sitting in a stiff upright chair, wanting a different place. Please, not poetry or talk of men. Slowly to retreat and not to need anything but warmth and air. Talk is something we believe is necessary. There is always ourselves, alone and disappointed in a place not made for us. Geometry surrounds like excess edge.
You begin to think about everything you could be making, every corner inhabiting, every stupid conversation not having. Everywhere there is someone not like me, everywhere things get too twisted and complicated, flaky and infuriating. Everywhere not wanting to hold this sordid banter, figure out the configuration of social nets which should really just burn to cinders. I'll celebrate with the ashes, I'll eat them for better health. There is too much noise among everything, I try not to cringe at such hypocrisy and gilded edges. I'll stop trying. Boredom will make me stop smiling - if the world is inattentive I will be inattentive and present it my droll expression. I want to paint houses and stop talking. Stop writing and waiting for something to overtake my boredom. I'll paint the walls. Or my body. Some kind of transparent color so I'd disappear completely and walk out of these doors raving mad, into the streets, all the way to a place with no cars. Where I don't have to cross streets. I'll drop all my duties as a studious human being and blend in with nothing at some beach. There will be no one, and I'd be quite happy not to deal with the rest of snivelling humanity. Room to breathe, air to eat. Socializing with fish. They have no problems with being fish, no mental frustrations. They aren't freaks like us."