I managed to go a few days without writing, and it felt good. Then yesterday I was sad, so I tried to boost my spirits by copying a few small quotes down here in my diary. Evil begets evil: now, each new day, I’ll feel obligated to wake before sunrise to try to outdistance the prior morning’s disaster with fresh stupidity.
Ye did run well; who did hinder you that ye should not obey the truth? (Galatians 5:7)
As a dog returneth to his vomit, so a fool returneth to his folly. (Proverbs 26:11)
I’ve noticed that the homes of elderly people tend to be cluttered. Surely there are some whose homes are sparsely furnished, orderly, well-maintained: in short, shipshape—but all the old folks I know reside amongst clutter. I mention this not to ridicule the elderly, but rather to identify with them; for I look around my own abode and see that I’m at the tipping point, in this regard. If I don’t soon begin to sort through and dispose the mounting detritus of my life, then I might, after all, prove to be human.
It seems that elderly people were once middle-aged, and middle-aged people were once children, who were once unborn. To remain unborn, your founding egg and sperm must not join forces. Failing this, if you find that you’ve become an infant, at least try not to enter middle age. Middle age is a fright, as it wields all of the memories of childhood to emphasize how one’s life has decayed; and the future of a middle-aged person offers nothing except further decay and death.
Once dead, however, if you can manage to keep a fair distance between your elements of potential selfhood—whether it’s another sperm-egg combo, or what you will—then you might even learn to tire of dreamless sleep.
It’s not that I have a problem with hoarding—on the contrary: my one great passion is to cast away riches (specifically pearls, preferably to swine)—it’s just that tedious items tend to accumulate. One must set aside time to accomplish the vetting process; and, if I’m a hoarder of anything, it is time.
Having established that my own life has nothing of interest to offer, let me tell you something about my sweetheart.
In the middle of the night, my sweetheart awoke and looked over at me, and, since I was already wide awake with worry, she asked if she should tell me her dream, and I said yes, so she explained as follows.
She was with a convention of little girls, and they were traveling thru the woods. They started in the morning, and traveled all day long until it turned evening—at this point, behold, one of the little girls had developed what is known as a “five o’clock shadow.” (My sweetheart used that exact phrase, which refers to the darkness that appears facially around one’s chin, cheeks, and mouth, on account of the whiskers that’ve sprouted since one’s morning shave.) So that (again, I’m quoting my sweetheart verbatim) is how the little girls knew that one of the girls was not a girl.
In the dream (I’m assured) this conclusion was very funny.