I've graced you with more mildly depressing, "deep"{?} thoughts.

Ender's Game is an amazing book. See, I was going to curse there, but I didn't. But really. It may actually be one of the best books I've ever read. I don't even know what to say about it except that it was amazing.

Yesterday I went to Silver's house! Except towards the end I got a monstrous headache, slept for an hour-and-a-half when I finally got home, and threw up (twice) all of the 30-some almonds I ate. It was pleasant. But today I was A-okay!

SKIP TO THE EXCERPT AHEAD, IF YOU WANT TO AVOID THE AFOREMENTIONED THOUGHTS.

I suppose I should have something significant to say, after a several-days hiatus from blogging--unintentional, of course--but now, like then, I still have nothing to say. That was a clumsy sentence. I can't wait until I'm old enough for Psychology classes. I mean, I REALLY can't wait. Some things I see people do, and I think I understand them, but I can't fight the constant sensation that I'm only just skimming the surface of what how the human brain works--and I am. Of course. I doubt most psychologists do more than that, but I still want to know what I can, and now. And, you know, it's not just about understanding other people--I guess I want to understand myself too. And I want to write. Believably. I want to know what my characters are doing, and why. I can never know them well enough, with my feeble grasp on how they work, to write them to the caliber I want to write them--to make them destroy themselves. Why is it that, in every story I create, my characters destroy themselves? Or there was never a self to begin with.

Okay, now I'm just rambling again. I suppose, giving the (sad) lack of traffic on my last deep, heartfelt entry, it's not really what people want to hear. Never mind, I know it's not what they want to hear. And I don't blame them, because sometimes I'm just incapable of articulating things well; when I'm not writing about something shallow or vapid or pointless, it always comes out wrong, and people get confused, and when people are confused they get afraid. I don't believe in anyone anymore. Not even on that shallow level that everyone always assumes--that everyone lies, or everyone is stupid--but because none of it matters. Nothing matters. The best I can do to combat this is just to focus on something else--a smaller ring of importance, shrinking inward with every step. A thousand levels of thought, culminating in the firm belief that everything, everywhere, and everyone, means nothing. But I can forget that; I can pretend that societal laws are important, and revolution is important, and the order of the world is important, and that the universe beyond Earth is important, and that writing a book is important, and that love is important--and in a smaller level, on a personal basis, on a humanity-level basis, it is.

Damn, I just can't stop with my pointless rambling on my damn contriving thoughts. I should talk about something stupid now, like how I went to 3-D Art today instead of lunch, because that's so important--and I should recount every stupid joke I made today, and every time I forgot how unhappy I should feel--because I'm not unhappy, I just wish I was, so I have something to complain about. So I can legitimately discuss my despair with all humankind, and not feel like a hypocrite because of how many times I laughed today, forgetting that exact thing. It's an easy thing to forget.

I can see my future, spread out before me, but it doesn't seem real--it never seems real--that one day I could be there, in that place, and not here, in the place I've always been. I can see my past, clawing at me from behind--or maybe I'm clawing at it, because I'm incapable of forgetting, and it's sitting like a dead thing behind me--wasted, unimportant, yet still so heavy--and I can't believe I was once there, and not here, in this place I've always been. I can only see the present, and not a moment before or after; it is the only thing that exists for me, but I can't feel it--I don't feel many things--and nothing ever occurs to me, or is realized--because the future doesn't exist and the past is just a dead thing, and the present is a step beyond transient, and verging on nonexistent. So I don't feel it. Everything is just where I am and where I've always been, and nothing ever changes, because change doesn't exist, only where I am and where I've always been. And with these thoughts I shouldn't feel fear, and I shouldn't be able to stop walking--I've tried it before, though, and I'm always able to stop walking, but even more so I'm able to keep walking, and that's the thing that makes me remember that nothing ever ends, and time never stops, more so than the transience of the days, of the hours, of the weeks--I'm able to keep walking. Everything in the universe could boil down to that for me; I'm able to keep walking.

But then, it always loops back around, to say that if I'm able to keep walking--if I can always take another step, further, closer to the destination that isn't a destination--than nothing really matters. Everything is concrete, and everything is fleeting. It all depends, really, on what sphere you're looking at; but the greatest sphere, the sphere you can't look beyond, or see past, because it encompasses everything and holds true of all things, is that nothing really matters.

I wish I could speak this all, instead of just writing it. And I wish people would read it. And tell me something that makes sense.

So I guess now I have an excerpt.

“I loved someone, once.” That tone in which she spoke it! I loved someone, once—upon a time, I wanted to add, because that was the impression her voice gave; she did not laugh or smile, but stared at the rising sun as if thoughts she could not comprehend or turn to fruition were burning just behind that high, pale forehead of hers. I remembered, somewhat guiltily, that I had once believed her incapable of love—but now, to hear her speak this negation of my previous thoughts, I could not believe otherwise. I saw it in the distance of her eyes. She had loved someone, once.
At once the look had passed from the rising sun, and turned instead to the heavens, eyes alight with strange fervor and despair. “Does the sky not mock me, Abraham?”
“The nature of your love—”
“Was obsession.” She closed her eyes, then, and that strange and small smile she so often wore showed itself on her exhausted face. “No, not obsession, but destroying, Abraham, destroying.”
“Destroying of self?”
“Destroying of all things.” She buried her hands in her hair, her dark and windswept hair, which was so long it brushed the calloused ground beneath us. “I would have destroyed everything for this man, Abraham—everything in the world. For a man! What an inconsequential word, but then, when I was near him—what an inconsequential world!”
“That is not uncommon for lovers to say, Rele.”
She laughed with viciousness, but viciousness towards self. “You do not comprehend my words, then, Soul-Seer. I am disappointed. Have you not been with me long, now?”
Shame tinged the edges of my voice, like feathers just brushing against—I was ashamed of the truth of her words. “I have been with you long, yes.”
“And yet you do not understand the nature of my love. In fact, I would go so far to say as you thought my incapable of such a violent thing—I have read it on your face. I can read you better than you me. Is that not sad, Abraham?”
I turned out to the sea, which was below us, far below us—and the sun, red and brighter than all things of the world, and reflecting on the sea so it was aflame with the reflected light. And I looked to the sky, clear and pale and translucent in nature; towards the ever-glowing sun that was burning just as bright as the sea below it, reflected; it was all shades of brilliance. And I looked behind us, to the craggy rocks and jumbling path that led its way to this spot, this fierce, lonely, wild spot, to which Rele had led me; thick with the decayed foliage of a winter past, and yet becoming brilliant in the warmth of the rising sun. Have I painted a lovely picture? And Rele, she became as part of it as the sea below our feet, or the sky above our heads; she shone with the orange and pink brilliance of the sun, and cast her shadow far across the weathered earth behind us.
“It is sad, Rele.”
She opened her eyes again, and did not blink away the light of the sun; she absorbed it. “I have lain here, tormented, but never willing to throw myself down this sheer cliff face, to a most certain and terrible death. And now, when I am peace, it occurs to me how effortless it would be to do so, how simple—and not permanent at all, as I have thought in younger years, but rather liberating. Almost painless. Do you not think so?”
I could not help the clenching of my muscles, and the tightness of my throat, as I imagined her body, ever graceful, flying towards the sea—embracing it—like a bird in flight, ascending to the heavens just as she was descending to the torrid earth. A torrent of grace, and yet bearing the finality of sorrow—I said, with a quiet tone, “I do not think so, Rele.”
She peered at me, soft gray eyes—gray as the underside of a dove’s wing—revealing no alarm, and no surprise. “Would you leap after me, Abraham?”
“It would not matter,” I answered quickly, unable to meet her eye, for her eye was like a dagger to my soul, gentle in its bloody victory. “I am immortal.”
“But would you, Abraham?”
I was silent. I watched the space between the edge of the cliff and the sea; a breathtaking distance, and eternal. She smiled at me with the same slight smile.
“You have been charged with watching me, Abraham; you have been charged with revealing my soul, and understanding it. Why is that, Abraham?”
“You were in need of it. My task is not one to be questioned.”
“And my place is not to be, either. Abraham, your name possesses meaning only because it is yours. That is your charge, your sacred duty, and yet you do not understand me at all. Can I tell you why I think that is, Abraham?”
I did not answer; I did not need to. She answered for me. “It is because you love me, Abraham, and we never understand that which we love.”
I stared to the rising sun, though it burned my eyes; to look upon her would be much more pain. “On the contrary; it seems to me that that which we love, we would understand perfectly.”
“It is not the case.” Her fingers found mine, but only her fingers; they were soft as wings caressing the air. We were connected, only for a moment. “It is never the case.”
I felt her slipping away from me, before I felt it, and her fingers were not with mine. There seemed a perfect moment, perfect in its infinity, in which our skin was apart by only a breath of a breath, in which I understood her, and she understood me, and the whole world could be encompassed in the space between our skin. She slid from the cliff face with perfect grace and, with brilliant eyes closed, fell to the sea. I could not watch, though I felt her every peaceful breath resounding like a thousand deaths through my soul.
I could not watch. Instead I leapt.

I think I'll go post something embarrassing to Facebook.