/lit/ - Literature

[Anonymous No.4499886]

This isn't anything. I'm sitting here on a Thursday night (which isn't much of a night at all, really) and thinking aimlessly about the troubling cliches that my new psychologist seems prone to using. Thursday is not much of a day either, really, which makes it perfect for seeing a shrink. “Looking through a glass darkly” is his personal favorite, it seems. I read a book today that used the word bromide to describe a statement like that. The author of this book is a personal favorite of mine but he was also prolix and in denial about it. I actually read his stuff because he had depression, as well, and was one of the few authors who decided to take a direct approach to the condition in his writing, opting against the grain of clever artifice and device that the classics employed, of which I'm sure he (i.e. the author) hoped to join the ilk of. Ironically, he speaks in this book I'm reading about how our modern age is all about the organization and classification of the accomplishments of the past, as there is no new ground to break, but he also claims to be a postmodernist. Ironically also, he hung himself from the eaves of his roof. Given that I respect the man, this makes it confusing for me to decide where I stand on both issues. With the latter, I suppose that I believe the reason the classics decided not to talk too candidly about depression is because, well, it makes you fucking depressed. Distraction (which is, incidentally, the thesis of another of this unnamed author's works) is good for us whether we respect it or not. Please remember, this isn't anything. I suppose I'm trying to experience new things, do some soul-searching.. That all sounds cliché, I know, but sometimes there are societal tropes you just can't avoid, eye-rolling platitudes that unfortunately happen to shape us as human beings. So this is one of them. I've always played around with the idea of writing but for obvious reasons it was always hard to begin. Inspired obliquely by romantic advice from my psychologist, I've decided to come clean instead, with no conceit, and just write whatever's in my head. Be myself, so to speak. I've just winced. One of the hardest parts of self-improvement is realizing you were always the stupid, ignorant ass that you identified in others to make yourself feel better. But the hardest part, by far, is the indescribable pain in your chest. I was recently dumped, and strangely enough, the pain I feel from that emerges from the stomach. Or rather, it is felt in the stomach, because it is similar to having a gaping, sucking wound there that is constantly chaffed by the wind. The way to a man's heart is through his stomach? Huh.

[Anonymous No.4499889]

The pain of self-improvement is closer in sensation to an actual broken heart. What was the point of all this again? Oh yeah, writing whatever came to mind. I suppose I've been doing that, but my old habits insist that I take this far too seriously and try to make some kind of essay out of it. I have trouble letting things go; rather, letting them take their course. This was, incidentally, why I was dumped. I tried to make things perfect, and got scared and insecure when they weren't. This obsession obviously caused a vicious cycle. I shouldn't have been in a relationship, honestly, but my heart wants to take on a crutch and pretend it isn't one. Enough sappiness. This is starting to sound like a blog instead of a writing exercise. Nonetheless, I'm probably going to continue to add to that impression. I guess that's just where I am in life right now, which I suppose is an upshot to the loneliness issue, because if I spent a lot of time with other people I would just be a downer and an attention fiend towards them. I can defend all of this, however, as an attempt to discover some kind of underlying style. Like in the dating world, it's really just a numbers game. If I plod on like this long enough, eventually things might actually start to get cerebral and interesting. So far, this is nothing. But it could be something. Anyways, back to the blog stuff. I have pretty severe anger issues. Not even sexy anger. My puppy is staring at me with the dumb happiness of all puppies, tail wagging over the comforter and mouth wide open in the expression we take for happiness. I love this dog, but I get brief urges to punch her in the face, and I'm not trying to entertain you. If I love dogs but also want to hurt them sometimes, perhaps that says something about whether I should be attempting to love human beings at this point in my life. I need this alone time to really work on myself, and perhaps all of this loneliness despite my attempts to make friends and lovers is some sort of sign that I should have been doing that for years now. The first step to recovery is recognizing that you have a problem. It's strange, because I've always known I had a problem, but I recently realized that I've never attempted to recognize it.

[Anonymous No.4499897]

wait, david foster wallace hung himself from the eaves of his roof? he hung himself outside? that's queer. for some reason i always pictured him hanging from one of those weight lifting pullup rack things but then again that's probably just because i spend too much time working out

[Anonymous No.4499900]

There's a weird intimacy to recognizing one's self in a negative light that I've shied away from. It's almost as if there is another, kinder me standing outside of me and giving me a look of compassionate understanding. I guess I can visualize this figure as literally being the man in the mirror. I just looked at myself in the mirror and attempted to make such a look, but all it accomplished was to remind me that I do not know how to smile. That's not meant to be depressive, it's a very literal statement of fact. I've never known how to make my smile look natural, even when I was a child, and very much undepressed. Makes me wonder if my Dad is actually right in saying that depression is hereditary, and that maybe my inability to smile attractively is similar to my inability to roll my tongue into a taco shape. If that were the case, a doctor should've diagnosed me with hereditary depression a long time ago, and then the foreknowledge of that fact maybe would have made me better prepared for all this. Watching my dog sleeping is making me sleepy. I suppose that's everything. But it hasn't been anything. Goodnight.

[Anonymous No.4499902]

>>4499897
With a belt. Kicking off of a plastic chair. It's almost like another incredible story he wrote.

[Anonymous No.4499905]

>>4499902

PERFORMANCE ART

[Anonymous No.4499908]

>>4499905
Hahaha, well done. I think Wallace would have approved of such an interpretation. He was always so good-natured about it.

[Anonymous No.4499933]

>>4499900
woah.
we're experiencing the same pains right now anon.
shit sucks.

[Anonymous No.4499960]

Well I just stole a library book. So you know. Yeah.

[Anonymous No.4500020]

>>4499960
Did the library have those electromagnetic detectors at the exit and you had to rip the chip out of the book?

[Anonymous No.4500062]

>>4500020
Pretty much. No one saw me take it. It's a book on ethics ironically.