This is literary diary of bizzare person from Europe - now living in L.A
I know, it's trivial, but what can i do
Published on March 27, 2007 By Secret Literary Diary of Malte In Philosophy
My writing is just a writing of no importance. That's obvious and there is no question about it. What one can write to really feel that he had done something what has any meaning to the world. If it was about money, government, sports, politics , or male-female games and struggles, oh, this maybe would have that sacred meaning. But my writing has no meaning , therefore it implies i have no meaning either.
I can write about the books, or movies or about the dozens of really weirdest examples of people i use to get close with. Why it's like that?? Why am I drawn and vice versa to people so weird and also unpleasant for the long run, we go close together, extremely close and next we depart without a word, suddenly, scary - left with just the hanging sadness and emptiness.
Emptiness and longing, against the common sense, against the logic, against your well-being. Why miss them? What is so special about them. They are rotten in their minds and intentions, and you know that, but you still cannot imagine feeling this kind of warmth with any other species of human being. Are they like me or just the exact opposite? Seems like both at the same time. Cannot solve it. Cannot be with them. It always turns to be impossible if not purely destructive. Does it mean an inner solitude for me forever? But maybe it's not that bad, maybe all what i am looking for is my reflection, maybe all this disappointments are caused by my own frantic hunt for myself? Again I desperately looked into the mirror. And i like what I see. And I adore it. But it doesn't make me feel any better. The mirror is the cheater here. The devil. The witch.

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