Diary: Secundus Epistula

by lostmarble


Feedback is appreciated--my email is idiosyncrasy132@yahoo.com. I promise to respond to any questions or comments, and will give the english translations of the latin text upon demand (I would also appreciate any feedback as to whether my latin is accurate.)


Secundus Epistula

Quibus obex cado

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I had a revelation today.

It seems that I have a penchant for overindulgence; consequently, I take far too much of the things that harm me. I go to deeply into relationships, to the point when I cannot safely back out, and someone is always hurt. I want the truth--but when I get too much it makes me heartsick. Why can't I just learn what I want and be happy with what I have?

God, I know that if most people had what I have they would be ecstatic. Thrilled. I mean, what could possibly be wrong with my life? I have a huge house, a promising company of my own, women and men beyond what I could ever want or need, and of course the cars.

Like the one that I crashed through that barrier all those years ago.

That barrier was certainly both literal and figurative wasn't it, Lex? You let your guard down when you were brought back to life...you changed. People can change, after all. Can't they? I want to believe so. But at the same time...I don't, and I can't. Seeing as my father has proved that to me, time and time again.

It all relates back to those two men, doesn't it? Those two figures that loom the largest in my life to date, such total opposites, it's almost incredible. Like light and dark, or polar ends of the same magnet.

Neither has given me what I want.

Love.

As sentimental as it is, it is my truest desire. Chalk it up to my newly discovered tendency to overindulge. When I have a taste of affection, I want it all; no barriers. A father's guidance, a lover's embrace...what is the difference, really? The depth and completeness of the passion behind either is the same.

Call it wistful--I also always want what I cannot have. Lately, it's getting harder to find anything I can't have...and the desire fades once the object's attained, of course. Life is bitter with irony, isn't it?

It's the music and the drink talking. Elliott always puts me in a melancholy, self-critical mood, and tonight, he's helped along by an entire bottle of 1998 Ch'teau Ptrus. But, I find I like it--I can relate to his songs, therefore to him, perhaps. What we write is the truest expression of our souls, and music makes it all the truer, doesn't it? Ah, I'm waxing poetic again. Perhaps that's the drink talking, too? God, I hope so. I'm already feeling more like a Frenchman than I ever should, drinking wine straight from the bottle and philosophizing about the nature of thought and love, without the added grandiloquence of verse.

At any rate, relating to anyone is not usually an activity I indulge in. Such a pity he died so young. But...to be alone with the music...no one will know that I have emotions if I only feel them in private. As the saying goes, if a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear...it will never make a sound. Cutting down trees in empty forests had just better not become a habit. I'll run out of strength before I run out of woods.


"The doctor orders drinks all night to take away this curse But it makes me feel much worse
Bed white...
So here he comes with the blank expression Especially for me because he knows I feel the same Because happy and sad come in quick succession I'm never going to become what you became Don't you dare disturb me
While I'm balancing my past
Because you can't help or hurt me
Like it already has
I may not seem quite right
But I'm not fucked, not quite
Bled white
Bled white"



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