I have nothing important to say here. What do I write about? The tedious happenings of my day? Does that matter? Shouldn't I be occupied with more profound matters?
Many questions, and no answers. The most frustrating aspect - no one can supply the answers to me. I must find them myself. I must rely upon my own senses, my own choices, my own subjective solutions. Those are far more valuable than anything anyone could simply tell me! It was raining - hard, with cracks of lightening. I have not seen it rain so hard in a long time. I had a dream last night, the petty details which are not cause for any legitimate examination, but the climax was far more symbolic.
I had passed through trials, difficult times, and had been released alone into the street at night- beautiful, cool, with people, glowing signs, flowers. There was a parade and I sat on the sidelines, daylight now. I saw a white street with a cross at the end that cast a sweeping golden shadow. I buried my face in my hands and sobbed in relief. A little girl next to grasped my hand and smiled - "it's over now," she told me.

I think that I am in love with ideals, you see, and that is quite dangerous.
If I had lived in 1917 I would have been a socialist, undoubtedly - had I lived in 1952 I would have been a socialist also...but now the specter of communism is indeed little more than even that; it has disappointingly failed, proved to be untranslatable from idea to action. And where, then, does that leave me now? Reading Mayakovsky and Che Guevara and Gandhi and Tolstoy and Kierkegaard and Dostoevsky in this post-industrial, post-modern, post-revolutionary world? How do I make sense of antiquated thought and apply it to the present? Socialism, no - that, at least, I have decided. Or have I? Have I really rejected every tenet?
Mayakovsky and his passion, Che Guevara and his passion, Tolstoy and Gandhi and these men and their overwhelming desire for change - that, I think, is what I most admire, in spite of the means. Or perhaps even because of it.
I examine each from an intimate view and see a life led by infinite curiosity. What I would not do to have met them.

What inane intricacies of life! How seriously people take themselves.
Hahaha, I was on LiveJournal today (bored mindless) and reading, with a kind of voyeuristic pleasure, how people meticulously record their day-to-day lives. This in itself is not bad if it is for such self-serving purposes as deciphering events and emotions, improving writing, recording thoughts for later perusal, but to slave over every detail for the approval of somebody else - that should not do. Writing should be for the improvement (and approval) of self, always. Writing is so highly personal, I feel, one of the ultimate forms of self-expression and satisfaction. Be completely honest with yourself as you write, no matter how hard the struggle (and it is hard) because it makes writing all the more worthwhile.
Silly people, discuss your day-to-day lives if you must, simply do it for yourself and be damned if anyone reads it or likes it or cares even enough to disagree!