You know, I'm fucking bipolar

That's what it seems like. One minute I'm happy and carefree, then the next I'm reminded of something, and it shatters.

I have all these feelings for people, from the shortest acquaintance to the most intimate lover, but I can't take any action. I'm standing on a minefield, and every time I test the ground next to me, it explodes.

I know I can't do anything, and yet I feel like the time is just slipping away, and it'll be gone before I have a chance to make things right. Things could be so good, but I cannot make them that way.

Once again in my life, I feel alone.

I thought that by talking with people and learning about them, I might become one. But it seems that this is impossible. I'm a non-person, a non-entity. I am redundant, and expendable. Sure, I might be smart, but there are a million smarter people. I have no talents, and no social status. I'm a proletariat in suburbia. What the fuck?

I honestly don't know what to do with my life. I have such grand dreams, but who are we kidding? People will stop at nothing to corrupt themselves, to stop progress, and to be immoral. I can't see any way to stop it. I can't.

The people I've talked to are similar. They are lost, confused, isolated. Yet, and I'm not sure if this is fear or self preservation, they can't let go of the social forces holding them down. They want to be successful in the eyes of society.

Then there are those who do not, and I love each and every one of them. Unfortunately, they have the worst case of (what I'm calling) Postmodern Syndrome. They are frequently depressed, abuse alcohol, inflict pain upon themselves, and generally engage in self destructive behaviour. I love them. I love them, and I want them to grok; grok each other, and grok themselves. They are people reading this blog, and they know: We need to find a solution to this problem. We need to find a solution to every problem. We have to, because we are the ones who see the problems in society.

This is more a rant than a blog entry, but I need to let it out.

I lie in bed every night, thinking. Sometimes, after the soft sounds of sleeping from my cell phone have made me smile, I imagine. My mind constructs scenarios of warm bodies and soft blankets. God, I wish these scenarios were true. I hate my mind, sometimes, because of this. I hate my dreams, for they give me false hope. I hate my optimism for always being wrong, and my pessimism for always being right. I have so much hatred, I couldn't bear to show it. If I allowed myself to indulge in more than printed words on a screen, I'd tear myself apart.

I imagine all of this, and I shiver. I shiver because I'm afraid. I'm afraid of the world, I'm afraid of the future. I'm afraid of myself, of the hatred in me. I don't want it to show. I really don't.

"I want to be free from desolation and despair."