seeing my life. the sillyness of it all. the failure. the time wasted. energy wasted. my beard is turning rapidly grey. (my hair is yet to catch up thankfully). An old man who was never a child. Ed Abbey writes about being comfortable and even taking joy in one's overall life failure; but he wanted to be famous at least, and was/is in some circles. I don't even have that going for me. I don't even want to be famous. What do I want? I want to fly. to breathe fresh air. jump in water. fuck women. the emptiness and drudgery of life I have feared my whole life seems immanent. my deepest and animal-like self recoils. marriage is an illusion. religion is an illusion. survival is real. better anything else. but then what have you got?
*been meaning to write a review of Julius Evola's 'Revolt against the modern world' , which is sure to irritate both his fans and critics. stay tuned
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