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The Melancholeric Epiphany

I sit here wondering what it is that I am that makes me feel that I am worth expending the effort to continue my existence in this ineffectual virtual world. The ceaseless urge to spew discontented mutterings and an overwhelming need to communicate schadenfreude being my sole motivators for returning here to publish a few hundred words more into the vacuumous, disorganised wasteland that is the internet.

The miasmatic bile that irregularly emanates onto this screen has no overall purpose, serves no great design, save the opportunity for me impose my obstreperous disquiet on the state of my life and that of the world I see, upon anyone willing to read it. And while in this regard I have slowly attracted a small group of somewhat coterminous individuals, it is clear that the extent of my influence is sorely limited.

In the beginning, I wrote for the sake of my own sanity. At some point this evolved into writing because I was under the illusion that I was good at it. The division was made between writing for pleasure and writing because I wanted to be heard. You will no doubt be aware that this 'diary' falls into the latter category. As to the former, it is currently limited to posting the occasional c1,000 word scribble on a chat forum, in the hope that it gets read (which regularly fails to happen).

So, for all my grandiose bloviations, I find myself in the distinctly moribund state of melancholy. I've presented myself as supercillious and monomaniacal, which may or may not be a true reflection of my personality; it's difficult to define oneself in such terms. Regardless of how I have attempted this experiment into wordsmithery, the result of it all is inescapable.

Which is to say that it is a complete categorical failure. I find myself waiting for a deus ex machina to descend and remove all obstacles to my ascension to a greater state of being via fiery immolation. The self-delusion required to maintain this state means that, for all my intense hatred of both the world and myself, I find that I have little to offer that is of use to the ailing planet and its society, and for myself, I can only offer pity, which angers me only more.

What did I expect? What did I hope to achieve? Whatever the answers to these questions (irrelevant as they now are), the fact remains writing was a part of me while it was still consummately necessary. Since then it has been only a powerful distraction, a waste of time.

But then, what is life if not that?

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Copyright Insane Bartender 2007-03-21 9:24 a.m.

e-mail me: Insane Bartender