2004-08-10
I Never Say What I Really Mean
hearing: nothing
reading: Candide and Other Stories by Voltaire
feeling: a slight sense of superficial triumph overshadowed by my growing despondency
I finished Les Miserables. I read all 1232 pages. In two weeks no less. Whoa. And I had three or four days in that span where I didn't touch the book at all. I feel...triumphant. I didn't think it would ever happen. I read quickly because I was afraid that otherwise, I'd never get finished with the book. But here I am. I've read the whole thing. Another great book under my belt.
I'm not thinking about the book right now though, so don't ask for my opinion.
Funny one should mention thinking actually...
I wonder whether people mean a lot of the things they say. Tender clich�s for example. Do people really mean them when they utter them? I don't believe that they do. That's almost why they are clich�s.
Take for example, "I'm thinking of you." Are they really thinking about you? It's so trite and commonplace to say that by now (in my mind), that I think it's just employed for decoration.
I have never told anyone that I was thinking of them. Why? Because I actually do.
And am.
I cannot ever bear to utter what I really feel and mean.
What more I had in preperation to say, indeed, what I really wanted to say, the point of this entry, must, to my grief, be withdrawn. I wish I had not to hide things.
And I really wish I could sleep...