Well hello there, readership. It’s been a while. I had to take a longer hiatus from opinion exposition because Kubrick week took a lot out of me. We technically didn’t even finish it. We stopped at the intermission of A Space Odyssey , and just started watching Gilmore Girls instead. The lesson here is that you cannot do a Kubrick movie marathon the same way you would do a Star Wars marathon. I feel like if we did actually finish his filmography in a week, Marissa and I would have had to start smoking heavily, speaking in British accents, and criticising scotch.
Netflix, the Impetus
Rockford doesn’t really have a vibrant night life, so like most nights we were driven to another Netflix documentary. Mortified Nation featured regular Americans reading humorous excerpts from their diaries.
It wasn’t the best documentary. You only need ten to twenty minutes to glean as much as it has to offer. We stopped the movie half way through and turned to our own diaries.
Marissa’s was adorable, but expected. She was smart, godly, conscientious, and open to new ideas. There were a few laughable musings and some misplaced contrition, but who doesn’t have some of that in their own childhood?
Then I found my journal.
My journal was forged in that perfect combination of angst, puberty, and absolute arrogance. Many of you who interact with me regularly probably don’t know that the whole ‘talking to people’ activity is a relatively new angle I’ve been trying out. I spent a good several years brooding silently in my head.
Quiet kids get a reputation for being really smart. The Bible even says Better to be a silent fool, but considered wise. But the big disadvantage to living inside your head day-in-and-day-out is that you don’t have anyone there to hear some of these crazy ideas and say, “Hey man, you are being a total jackass right now.”
If you ever had someone like that in your life, cherish them. Give them a call right now and shower them in gratitude for never letting your write something like my journal.
My Great Journal’s Premise
When I got a journal, I wasn’t interested in recording things that I did. Everyone’s routine was mundaine. I dreaded the words ‘How was your day’, and would want to crawl out of my skin every time I heard them. I was much too interesting for merely describing my daily activities.
I wanted a place to scrawl out all my genius ideas about the universe. Being a mere high schooler, I couldn’t boast a lot of experience - but I, you know, played a lot of Assassin’s Creed.
I was determined to be absolutely uninterpretable, even down to the handrwiting. I tuned my handwriting into a series of unintelligible slashes and eccentric whips around the page. After all, I had no time to make any of this readable . The hearts and minds of all these other people around me were at stake. I had to get my ideas down so my followers would have them forever.
That being said - are you ready to read my journal, dear reader?
Chapter 1: Lunacy
Nothingness is beginning to sound like tearing between my ears. What is lunacy? Insanity… sanity… sane… REALITY? Maybe the reality is that everyone is, to an extent, insane.
There are some things mortal man will never know (e.g., the span of the universe)
The things, although unknown, are yet facts
Facts are real, therefore, reality
Therefore, all men are not fully in touch with reality
QED: Everyone is insane.
How are you all doing? Probably throwing a Bible at the mirror, no doubt. This is heavy stuff, and we are only in chapter one.
Oh, and that thing at the end was a proof - like the ones you make in Geometry to prove something is real. Because I wasn’t just making stuff up. These are proofs of things that are real. I usually made these when I was ready to declare another law of the universe. And if you had asked me what “QED” means, I would have done just about anything but admit I didn’t actually know.
These ‘grand revelations’ were usually just me playing around with words. They usually end with more of a well teeeeeechnically maybe truth. All I was trying to say is that insanity is a scale, rather than a yes or no question - something mental health professionals have known for decades, amazingly, without ever consulting my writings.
In fact, I’ll borrow from the good poet Anonymous who expresses the idea much more succinctly.
Crazy people see ghosts. Sane people just ignore them.
I was ridiculous, but I'll bear through the cringe and intellectual silliness for your sake. Good night, readership.