03.05.06

I understand now my introverted self. I hate people and their presence. Their impartial imparting of ideas onto my self sickens me. This is why, a disgusting, by someone's standards, existence of no affiliation with the outside world, lost in the imagination of fantasy literature, brings me great and unmatched pleasures. I have not been happier in times that I can recall. My senses have not been clearer, my emotions not more vivid, and my enthusiasm more sparkled that in this day. I hate the populace and their opinion. All I want is to live like a hermit, alone to personal contact with others, only connected through a third party means: technologically, by writing, long distance acts. In general this leaves my persona to flow outside ofmy body, if I do have respect for the knowledge, learning and ways of the past, PERHAPS, perhaps, someday I will show it when I choose to do so. For it is foolish to think that I will ever not choose so, because I hunger for knowledge as I thirst for water and long for sexual interactions. It is but a physiological need, not more. When it comes it must come as I see fit, in no other manner dictated nor suggested by my peers, or whomever I contact with. This is rebellion some would say. NO! This is personality, nothing more.

And with this power of imagination, which I receive and practice in opportunity from the novel I read – my life becomes a fantasy, which I regard with respect because this fantasy is MY own, nothing more. As is then, the things I do in this fantasy are truly delicate, connected, not trivial and resented as in the current existence I lead. Perhaps one day, this life will refine itself for me to be able to sit and imagine what I do then is but what I imagine then, only real. That will come through the application ofmy imagination to knowledge, and the essence of power that knowledge will impart in myself through my vivid practices stemming by imaginative procedures, all mine, ingrained into my nature. Perfection, yes that's what it will be.