Post excerpts from your diary. Pic related: it’s one

>this is my diary desu

>>8515931
Dear diary, today was a great day
Bought myself a brand new horse
Shes strong and fast and so very beautiful
and just a little wild of course
I know tomorrow I can tame her
If I only believe
Wish me luck diary,
Christopher Reeve

Dear diary,
Some faggot made a diary thread and I'm feeling paranoid.

THE END

>>8515931
I'll bite

>After work I groved out on the piano and had my classes, which was fine. I had my note taking training session, which seems like a bit of a hassle, but for which I'll get paid. I might go and take notes for a drawing class as well for something like sixty bucks a week, as well as learning about drawing. I had the compulsion to draw her, which is all that needs to be said.
>I spent too much time idling about, which is just stupid and unacceptable. I only read a few chapters of Walden today, which I'll certainly finish tomorrow, and wrote 500-600 words of [My novel Tale of Brave Ulysses]. It's not good enough.

>his diary isn't just a rhetorical device
pathetic desu

>room... you spend tens

>>8515931

I am not sleeping very well on the last days: headaches, bad digestion, interrupted sleep. All of this is probably due to the raising of my anxiety levels: I tend to get this way when I am not writing anything of worth or producing enough material.
I am in those weeks where everything one writes seems like a draft, where all the things that are modeled and remodeled never achieve the perfect form. There is the feeling that the perfect word for the situations exists, but one cannot find it and has to be contented with simple synonyms or substitute terms. There is the weight on ones back, a sensation that the perfect phrases, the most memorable expressions already exist, floating, untouched and invisible, in the universe and that, if you were capable of capturing these magnificent butterflies with the net of your imagination, if those birds-of-paradise would fall in our spider-web, then we would have something to show to the world. But of course: we are never able to structure our verses in a way that they might sound like the very spirit of the universe, and so we are always frustrated.
I have annotated the drafts for the dialogues of the scene (all of them still in simple prose), and already on those first sketches I had the feeling of having failed. After that I started to versify the material, to knit flesh and veins on the skeleton. Then you write some verses, but it seems they can become much greater; you rewrite them, and still you can’t see in them the pulsation of the eternal, the voice of the perfect and immutable, that you believe you could achieve; you rewrite the thing once more, change some verbs, add some concrete details, more color and movement to this metaphor, more scintillation to that simile, but you still don’t reach the point you wanted to reach. In such weeks you feel as if you were drowning and there was nothing that could be done to save you: no matter how much you strive you simply cant escape from this marsh, this swamp. It is not strange that your digestion, your sleep, your nerves are all operating with defects.
You want the traces of the letters that form your words, the bones of the letters, to be like Hamelin flutes, capable of enchanting the creatures; you want for your verses to breath, for the breath of Orpheus to pulse in your lines, for them to be as full of life that, if they were cracked, they would bleed. But you will never reach such level, so it is better to have in mind that all you can do is to try to achieve your ideal, but all the time knowing that the ideal cannot be touched. Well, this is all bullshit anyway: the criteria for artistic evaluation is subjective. You would like to take the breath away from the readers, but all you manage to do is to ruin your own organism.

>>8516511

I have been researching with the agronomists how many hectares would be necessary to plant (in the olive grove) for the business to be economically viable: they say I should start with 10 hectares, and then raise it to around 50 or 70. If I could manage to buy the land I plan to already start with 50.
The political crises awakes the worse in people: egoism, aggressiveness, vulgarity, coldness, lack of empathy; in periods of crisis, or when they are threatened, when they are cover with the blanket of anonymity: on those occasions you see what people really are, and such knowledge makes our faith in humanity start feeling the severe pains of arthritis, evident signals of degeneration and weakness. It makes me remember the message of Einstein in the time capsule of Westinghouse:

“Our time is rich in inventive minds, the inventions of which could facilitate our lives considerably. We are crossing the seas by power and utilise power also in order to relieve humanity from all tiring muscular work. We have learned to fly and we are able to send messages and news without any difficulty over the entire world through electric waves. However, the production and distribution of commodities is entirely unorganised so that everybody must live in fear of being eliminated from the economic cycle, in this way suffering for the want of everything. Further more, people living in different countries kill each other at irregular time intervals, so that also for this reason any one who thinks about the future must live in fear and terror. This is due to the fact that the intelligence and character of the masses are incomparably lower than the intelligence and character of the few who produce some thing valuable for the community. I trust that posterity will read these statements with a feeling of proud and justified superiority.”

I have been slowly reading Barnes Nightwood. There is poetry in it, but it seems to me that it’s modeling is careless, that there are sparks of poetry, but that they are not nourished enough, not correctly distributed. Yet I am still only in the beginning of the book, so it is too soon to say anything final about it.

>>8515931
>Pic related: it’s one of Tolstoy’s diary.

does anybody has the pdf of his diaries?

File: pg-31-tiananmen-6-ap.jpg (682KB, 2048x1536px) Image search: [Google]

682KB, 2048x1536px

>tfw rereading diary entries written during high school drama
Any new thing will find its maturity in all the fungal outgrowths or excrescences or little little tiny lurid little developments into fun inverting melodramas to turn the thing’s essence on itself for the old reassertion of a new newness you saw coming arced over curvatures to shrivel your little dicky into something like a glorified drooping clitoris. For example days ago yes only days ago I saw them in a dream with myself earnestly and innocently coercing the two into a bathtub only days after dreaming a young cousin shit in my bed--but now here we all are with the old paranoias reconfirmed reinforced and broadened vastly to mat down tracts on tracts on tracts of mindspace I’d once thought to be totally ungrooved. There seems no way out of this complex shithole (a kind of spiraled miasmatic corkscrewing indent into my now tautened and painfully melodramatized heart) without the kind of vast reductions and useful simplifications happy absurd little people painlessly glorify in during day twilight night--at every angle of the sky--without ever thinking that anything might be more variegated or nuanced or sublime or true or nuanced in a way that doesn’t ultimately feedback into a vaunted pop song with all the clean demarcations facelifted by cryptoregressive PC shibboleth. To put this all sensically into words: [REDACTED] easily groped [REDACTED]’s breasts+ass and claimed to have spanked(!) her several times, at least partially to revenge himself on [REDACTED]. We’re all liberal here so no problem with flesh-on-flash contact--it’s more the thorough and/or conclusive disappointment at someone I thought to be in some way strong or interesting or yes special willfully submitting (yes submitting) to be physically used by someone she most likely knew to feel nothing for her other than mild contempt. This is platitudes. This is RedPill. This is all the things I’ve routinely denied the existence of manifesting themselves quite naturally in things I happen to care about a whole whole lot.

2016: contrary to everything I planned, I'm now doing law. So far, all's going well, but I guess I'll have to see. Beyond that, we moved to [redact]; [redact] and [redact] had a daughter, and [redact] is coming back to Australia. At the end of last year, [redact] and I went to Chicago and New York. I loved it; we all did. The eery silence of snow, and its omnipresent whiteness; the silent crunching of snowflakes between my boots. I miss it. But I'm happier this year: I don't have any more negative friendships (such as [redact] and [redact]). I'm actually enjoying life again.

>>8517288
Good for you